


Everybody Works

by Wheat From Chaff (wheatfromchaff)



Series: everybody works [7]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, a pair of fucking idiots fall in love and can't handle it, but there's a lot of angst, explicit use of carly rae jepsen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-11 21:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 78,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13532778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheatfromchaff/pseuds/Wheat%20From%20Chaff
Summary: “Ever since the media picked up on the rumours of our, uh, ‘relationship’, things with our competition have gotten interesting. It’s because of you, Tim.”“Because of my brother, really."OR: After rumours of their 'relationship' come to a head in the media, Tim agrees to do something really fucking stupid just because Rhys asked him to. Again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the final major part of the everybody works/sad men au. It's 4 chapters and 80k so get ready.
> 
> Hey I made a Spotify playlist for this one. Check it out: [everybody works](https://open.spotify.com/user/wheatfromchaff/playlist/7GLi2v7EaNrvqwIRgr8ENh).
> 
> Exxxxtra special thank yous to scootsaboot ([AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/scootsaboot)/[Tumblr](http://scootsaboot.tumblr.com/)) and ssealdog ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sealdog/pseuds/sealdog)/[Tumblr](http://ssealdog.tumblr.com)) for beta'ing and for their advice and for catching all the dumb mistakes I keep making...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to post this in 4 chapters but uhh. Chapter 1 was nearly 20k, so I decided to split it. I'm estimating 8 chapters, but it may be 6. We'll see!
> 
> The story is complete and I'll be posting updates on Thursdays and Sundays.

Rhys scowled at the new notification that bounced onto his cellphone’s screen. Another lunch hour email from Yessica, who’d emailed him yesterday, and the day before, and the one before _that_. Regular as clock-work. Rhys wondered if he owed her an explanation or an official rejection. They had gone on two dates, after all.

Later, maybe. He was a busy man. He flicked the notification aside and resumed tapping out emails to the head of HR.

“The salad wasn’t bad,” Tim said. He was seated at the front, his hands pointlessly resting on the wheel of one of Atlas’ finest self-driving cars. “I like beets in a salad.”

“I like any place that treats salad like a main course and not a side,” Rhys said as he pressed his thumb on the ‘send’ button.

“I still think we should’ve gone to Tofu Village,” Tim said. The car eased to a stop at a red light. Outside grey clouds hung low over the black mirrored buildings, close enough to brush their bodies against the peaks like a cat against a door frame. “Gotten some Korean. Panyero isn’t bad, as far as those five-star joints go, but it still leaves a lot to be desired.”

Rhys’ scowl deepened. In truth, Panyero wouldn’t have been his first choice for lunch either, but it hadn’t been up to him.

“What was I supposed to do, Tim? Get up and leave after everyone had seen that I’d been stood up?” Rhys clicked to a new email. The daily report from a development lead. “Humiliate myself? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Rhys didn’t look up, but he could feel it when Tim observed him in the rearview. “Have they sent you an apology yet?”

Rhys’ lips twitched with the temptation of a sneer. “No. No groveling apology, no weepy voicemail, not even a text.” He skimmed the paragraphs of text that one of his employees had painstakingly written. “It’s like she doesn’t know who she’s dealing with.”

It’d been another blind date, courtesy of Moxxi. One of many he’d been on since October. She’d picked Panyero, claiming it was her favourite place in the city. She’d picked the time and the date, too. And then she’d failed to make an appearance.

Rhys wasn’t even upset, really. Twenty minutes after he arrived (five minutes late), he sent a message to Tim and told him to join him.

Tim snorted. “Who she’s dealing with… You sound like a mob boss. You want I should pay her a personal visit?” he asked, voice slowing to a ridiculous drawl. When Rhys looked up, he found Tim waggling his eyebrows at him in the mirror. “I could give her a message. One she won’t soon forget, ifyouknowwhaddamean.”

Rhys bit back a smile. “Not yet. If I don’t hear from her by tomorrow, I’ll put a hit on her.”

Tim’s tough-guy enforcer persona dissolved before Rhys’ eyes. “Boss, for the last time, no one says ‘put a hit’ anymore.”

“I do.”

“You embarrass me when you do.”

Tim didn’t often stay outside during their lunches anymore. Not since… Not since their little issue. Not since Jack spilled all his—and, by extension, his brother’s—ugly baggage all over prime-time national news. After that, and after Rhys and Tim had a serious conversation, Tim had come in from the cold, to sit by Rhys’ side once more.

Still. Tim did not join Rhys on his dates. Presumably his bodyguard wouldn’t want to sit in as a third wheel. Presumably, Rhys didn’t want that either.

Rhys poked a cybernetic finger into the back of Tim’s head rest, forcing the seat forward by a half-inch. “I cannot believe your continued disrespect to me, your beloved boss. Do you know how many people would _pay me_ for the chances and opportunities I give you?”

“Hundreds,” Tim said as the turn signal clicked to life. “Thousands. The entire city is desperate for the chance to apply your make-up, fetch your breakfast, and go through all the work of setting up an excellent digital filing system for you only to receive a slew of panicked texts at nine in the evening, just because you don’t understand how to use it. Even though it took me weeks,” Tim added, casting him a glare through the mirror.

“You think you’re joking, but you’re right for once,” Rhys said, waving his finger like a conductor’s baton. “People love me. People would love to serve me. And how great could your system be if I couldn’t find November’s Magellan report?”

“You didn’t even look,” Tim snapped.

“The benefits I offer far outweigh any problems you may feel this job places on you,” Rhys went on smoothly. Tim snorted. “I’m sorry if you’re feeling stressed, Tim. Maybe we can have a sit-down with HR and hash out an acceptable work-load solution for you.”

“I’d love to see what HR thinks about our working relationship,” Tim muttered. Rhys’ cheeks grew warm, but he forced himself to play ignorant. “And how could I forget those benefits,” Tim said, louder. “All the salads I could possibly want and all it cost me was my dignity and all my spare time.”

Rhys frowned. “Quit complaining. When was the last time I took you out for a salad? We always go to those greasy restaurants you find on _Yelp_ ,” he said, scorn dripping from the last word.

“Don’t pretend you don’t love those places,” Tim said.

Rhys decided to be the bigger person and let Tim’s usual insubordination slide. As per usual. “Pay attention to the road,” he said, sitting back.

Tim grumbled, but he did as he was told. As per usual.

Shepherded in by the blooming silence, the sounds Rhys had been ignoring crept back into his awareness. The quiet, precise hum of the electric engine, and the others like it on the road around them, the muted murmur of voices from the pedestrians on the sidewalks, the muttering of the radio playing through the front speakers.

White flakes began to drift down, swirling in the eddies of wind that formed between buildings. Rhys watched the first snow of the season fall onto the black pavement and the clean passenger-side windows, where they melted on contact.

At least it wouldn’t accumulate. The ground was still too warm, and the amount falling wouldn’t be enough to smother it into submission.

Rhys felt a small pang in the cathedral of his chest as he watched a child turn her astonished face towards the sky. Autumn had come and gone and Rhys had barely noticed. He didn’t know why it made him a little sad. It never had before.

“Snow in November.” Tim sighed, his head falling back against the seat. “We’re in for it now. At least it’s not freezing rain.”

Another notification appeared. Cecily this time. Rhys scrunched his nose.

Inviting Tim into the restaurant had let Rhys save some face, which was always key. But more than that, it helped stave off any interested parties, vultures who swooped in on Rhys’ table, hoping to take advantage of the opportunity presented to them.

Word had spread of Rhys’ arrival on the meat market. He didn’t know who had started grinding the rumour mill, although he really wanted to find out. Not long after he began using Moxxi’s match-making services, he received emails from what seemed like every single member of his extended social circle. People who’d barely said two words to Rhys in the past, now had a sudden interest in what he chose to do with his Saturday nights. It was a little flattering at the start, but it’d lost its appeal.

Being spotted alone in a public restaurant would’ve been like chum in the water and Rhys had no desire to be eaten by sharks. He’d already had two drinks and five invitations sent to his table by the time Tim appeared. Tim stole the second drink with a cheerful smile and tipped his head in a silent ‘cheers’ towards the well-dressed man who’d sent it to them.

Keeping Tim around had its uses. People thought twice before they approached Rhys when Tim was in his shadow.

Most people. Cecily would probably kneecap Tim with a crowbar if he tried to stand between her and the giant dollar sign she must’ve seen every time she looked at Rhys. Yessica might’ve paused, but only to think about the best way to remove Tim from the situation.

Cecily had been one of the first people to camp out in Rhys’ inbox. He dimly remembered her from some party one of his mother’s friends had thrown almost seven years ago. Cecily had been notable because she was pretty and aggressive. As a younger man, Rhys had found that appealing.

Not so much anymore. Rhys flicked the text message notification aside.

Tim hummed along to the radio. It was that strange sort-of singing that certain men liked to do instead of actually vocalizing the words. A gruff, musical sound at the back of his throat, his lips barely moving.

Rhys listened, smiling without meaning to. Without looking up from his phone, he accessed the volume and turned it up. The sound of up-tempo pop filled the car.

Tim stiffened, looking almost guilty. Rhys’ smile widened, turning a little meaner.

“You a fan of Carly Rae, Tim?” he asked sweetly.

Tim mumbled something. Pink rose on the sharp angle of his chiseled features, a softening Rhys always enjoyed and never saw enough of. He pushed forward in his seat, ignoring the way the safety belt tightened against his chest.

“How does this one go?” he asked as he started the song again. “ _I threw a witch in the well, don’t ask it I’ll never tell, something something to hell, and now you’re in my way_ …”

Tim jerked his elbow back between the seats, a poorly aimed jab that Rhys easily avoided. “You’re terrible. No, that’s not how it goes. How do you not know this hot banger?” he asked as the orchestra backing kicked in.

Rhys wrinkled his nose. “You have the nerve to give me a hard time for ‘put a hit’ on someone? Pretty sure no one says ‘hot bangers’, grandpa.”

Tim elbowed him again. “Shut up, you’re missing the best part.” He tapped his fingers against the wheel, following the beat. “Hey, I just met you, and this is cray-zy!” he crooned in a lounge singer’s boozy baritone. Rhys hid his smile behind his hand. “But here’s my number, so call me maybe! And all the other boys, they try to chaaaase me. But here’s my number—“ He leaned over, his still-red face close to Rhys’ own. Close enough that Rhys could taste the vinaigrette on his breath, smell the cedar-smoke tang of his cologne clinging to his collar. It made Rhys giddy, almost delirious. “So call me—“

A truck slammed into their passenger side, sending them sliding off course. A car horn blared, the automatic safety features of the cars around them kicking in at the same time, and soon they were moving aside, or stopping entirely, making space for the soon to approach emergency vehicles.

Except Tim didn’t stop. He gripped the wheel in both hands, twitched it to the right, correcting their slide before it could become a spin. The dashboard lit up. The car picked up speed.

“Tim?” Rhys fell back, feeling dazed. He felt like he’d been knocked out of his reality and into a different one, one where people still ran their trucks into other people. The screen on the dash flickered and the words ‘MANUAL CONTROL ACCESS GRANTED’ appeared in red. “Tim, what’s—?”

The car that’d hit them—a white van with black-out windows and no plates, roared into the road behind them. And picked up speed.

Rhys stared out the back window, his jaw slack. “They… They did it on purpose?”

“Get your head down right now.” Tim’s voice thrummed with barely contained tension, controlled and precise, speaking to something in Rhys’ hindbrain. Rhys’ spine bent in response. He put his head down.

He felt his car shaking under him. He could hear more horns blaring their warnings. The car door on Rhys’ right side had buckled. The window had turned into a mosaic of blue-green. Rhys stared at it without his brain engaging. It was pretty.

Something monstrous screeched at them as the van pulled up beside them.  Tim pressed down on the accelerator. The van nudged their bumper once, like a love-tap, and then again, more insistently, sending them fishtailing. Tim hissed and leaned into the spin, which careened them into another car. A scream of metal on metal sounded from what felt like inches from Rhys’ head. He clamped both hands over his ears.

“What’s happening?” Rhys felt winded, his chest tight. “What’s happening? Who are these people? Where did they—?”

“Boss.” Tim’s voice was firm, a solid presence in the swirling unreality that surrounded Rhys. Something he could hold onto inside his head. “I need you to breathe in and out, okay?” Rubber squealed under them. Tim’s knuckles were white. “In and out. Can you do that for me?”

Rhys could. He breathed, although his inhale hiccoughed and stuttered in his chest.

“Good. You’re doing good.” Tim sounded so calm.

Something brushed against their left side. Tim jerked the wheel to the right and when Rhys looked up he saw an off-ramp curling down and away, to a road Rhys had never seen.

He breathed in and out. The buildings that surrounded them were made from brick and streaked with grime. Graffiti flashed past. There were fewer cars.

The white van tailed them. Black windows acting as mirrors, letting Rhys watch the unfamiliar street swim past in reverse.

“ _Rhys_. Put your head down.”

He did. In and out. He closed his eyes.

“They’re herding us,” Rhys said, voice trembling. “Aren’t they.”

Tim said nothing. Rhys wrapped his hands around his stomach and fought against the whimper that shivered in his throat. It wouldn’t help.

Wait— _help_.

“The car!” Rhys’ head snapped up. “The emergency function! It’s supposed to alert security and the police.” Rhys looked at the dash, where the display flickered like a broken machine. “It’s… supposed to call...” His voice trailed off.

Tim glanced at him, his lips a white line. Rhys didn’t look back. His ECHOeye glowed bright and within an instant he was interfacing with the system. He found the emergency protocol—found that, indeed, the signal had activated. And found that it was being blocked.

“They’re jamming it,” Rhys said. “They must have a cricket. _Fuck_.”

Close-range signal jammers—aka ‘crickets’—had flooded the black market over the last ten years, invited into the age of information for any criminal looking to create dark spots in cell coverage. Most criminals used them to block anyone looking to hack the receiver in their phones to listen in on conversations.

“Can you fix it?” Tim asked. They had gone further away from the chrome and glass grip of downtown. The road under them was no longer a smooth black ribbon, but grey and cracked.  Empty warehouses with broken windows and empty doors stood on either side like silent, gaping bystandards, penning them in.

The white van followed, closing the distance between them. It was an older model, but it’d seen some improvements. Its fender had a dent, a scrape of black paint across its front.

“It’s not something you can fix,” Rhys said absently, his gaze stuck on that black smear. “It’s a device. I can’t access it. I could try to boost the signal, get around it maybe—“

Rubber tires squealed as a car burst in from a side street, slamming into their fender and pushing them into the next lane. Rhys fell back, his seatbelt tightening and locking in place.

Tim tried to push their way into the right lane—into a road that would’ve let them merge back onto the elevated highway—but the second car slammed itself against them, knocking them further off course. Another window turned into a mosaic and buckled inward. Rhys screamed.

Tim pulled away, tires shrieking, and took them roaring down the left road. Where empty buildings stood tight on either side, tightening around them like teeth in a mouth. Rhys pulled at his seatbelt and tried to catch his breath.

Headlights came on ahead. Tim took a sharp right, snapping them both to the side. He lead them into a narrow alley, crashing over empty garbage cans, old bags of trash bursting under their tires. He screeched past a rusted dumpster, clipping the corner and losing the driver’s side mirror.

Another left, and then a right. Buildings wheeled past. Empty windows like gouged eyes stared at Rhys on either side.

They came to a stop at last in some alley below the elevated highway, in the parts of the city that’d gone to gentle ruin when progress had taken the population away from the wharfs and manufacturing plants. Traffic rumbled far above. Neglect hung like a bad omen. Snow blew in from between the buildings, white flakes dancing past.

Tim sat very still, breathing hard. He stared ahead at the mouth of the alley. They were nestled in tight, which Rhys hoped was a good thing. Even if it made him feel cornered.

The screen flickered. A cartoon phone appeared for a split second before it vanished. ‘UNABLE TO ESTABLISH CONNECTION’ flashed in its place.

“They’re close,” Rhys whispered.

Tim didn’t look over. “You can get around this, you said?”

Rhys twisted his seatbelt in his hands. “I’ll need time,” he said. He didn’t know why he was still whispering. His throat felt too tight, squeezing itself around his words.

Tim glanced at the rearview. “How much?”

“I don’t… I don’t know.” Rhys’ breathing grew shallow. “I— I can’t predict— I don’t know where the closest transmitting tower is.” His eyes stung. “I—“

“Okay.” Tim leaned over the dash, peering at the entrance. “It’s okay. Breathe for me, boss. I need you to override whatever it is that’s blocking the emergency call system. Can you do that?”

Rhys nodded. He followed Tim’s gaze until he could see what he was looking at.

A white van sat in the shadow between two buildings. Rhys’ seatbelt creaked in his hands.

“You’ll be okay,” Tim said. His seatbelt released with a click. “I’m gonna buy you some time.”

Rhys lunged forward. He grabbed two handfuls of Tim’s coat and yanked him back.

 _“No_.” But Tim was twisting out of his coat, one hand on the door. Rhys’ seatbelt cut into his chest as he tried to grab Tim’s arm. “No, no, no, stay here. Stay. It’s safe here.”

“It’ll be fine,” Tim said, shaking him off. “I’ve done this a hundred times.” The van had begun to rumble forward. “A thousand. Walk in the park. It’ll be okay, Rhys.”

The door cracked, bringing in a blast of cold air, the smell of old trash and stale smoke. Tim set one foot on the ground and he was going to do this. Rhys was going to lose him.

“Get back here, get back here right now, Tim.” Rhys could barely breathe, the seatbelt cutting tight into his pounding chest. He snagged Tim’s cuff but it wasn’t enough, Tim was slipping away, and he’d be outside and Rhys would lose him.

He’d lose him.

“Tim if you set foot outside this car you’re _fired_!” The word felt like a bullet leaving its chamber but Tim barely even looked back.

He gave Rhys a quick, tight smile and shut the door behind him with a click. He tapped lightly on the windshield, just above the dashboard’s onboard computer. Rhys could only stare. Tim turned away, pulled his pistol from its holster and crept from around the car and into the shadows of the alley.

Swallowed by darkness. Rhys lost sight of him.

* * *

Rhys stood in the brightly lit hallway, staring at the powder blue door Dr. Hibou had vanished into.

There were seats behind him, lining the wall. He could sit. They weren’t great, but they weren’t uncomfortable. He could sit and stare at the posters on the wall. He could read a brochure. Maybe learn about the dangers of repetitive stress syndrome. Depression. Eating disorders.

The police had come and gone. They’d made their notes and tracked their dirt and grey water all over the tile floors. Every time Rhys looked at one of them all he could see was the flash of red and blue emergency lights.

They’d kept them for so long at the scene of the crime. They’d kept them for what felt like hours. To the point where he almost regretted getting a hold of them in the first place.

Almost.

White and black cars, white and blue paramedics, and a red fire truck for some reason. No one and nothing had caught fire, but they’d come anyway. Like Rhys was throwing a party and only emergency responders were invited.

They’d made him sit out in the cold while the sun set and the shadows spread across the ground like the rising sea. Rhys wore a wool pea coat, long and stylish and costing thousands of dollars, but it was designed to keep him warm while he walked from one heated building into the open door of a heated car. It wasn’t meant for the cold and wind of a mid-November night. Snow clung to his hair, and his face. Lips and lashes. Eventually, one of the paramedics gave him a blanket, but it didn’t stop him from shivering.

The police wanted to speak to Tim. The paramedics wanted to get to him first. They’d surrounded him in a swarm and Rhys couldn’t even get close.

The door finally opened, and Rhys heard the familiar voice of his private physician. She sounded light, almost jovial, like she was stepping away from a card game for a quick smoke. Rhys heard Tim’s quiet voice, although he could not hear the words.

It was like an activation code for his nervous system and Rhys came alive. He pulled the door open wider.

The room inside was bright and as cheerful as such a place could ever be. Everything was in soft eggshell, powder and pastels, shades meant to calm the anxieties of anyone wealthy enough to afford it.

The harsh white bandages and the wad of red-stained rags in the biohazard disposal both acted as loud, dissonant notes in what should’ve been a meditative score.

Tim sat on the lip of the exam bed. He had butterfly stitches on his arm, where the skin had gone white and bloodless. He had small scrapes on his hands, a bruise on his swollen cheek, and a cut on his lower lip.

 “Hello, Rhys,” Dr. Hibou said with a kind smile. Tim straightened from his slouch.

“Hey, boss,” he said.

Rhys’ gaze fell to Tim’s bare chest, to the silver gleam of his dog tags. To the bloom of blue and violet and red like a violent water colour, right in the centre. Right over his heart, like a bullseye.

Rhys had good memory. He could pull names, dates, faces from the ether. He could remember the make and colour of a business partner’s new boat. He could remember the carat and shape of a board member’s engagement ring. It’d served him well.

He would, he knew, remember watching Tim jerk, stumble, and fall for the rest of his life. He would see it when he closed his eyes.

“He’ll be alright,” Dr. Hibou said cheerfully. She patted Rhys on the shoulder.

“He was shot,” Rhys said. His voice still sounded hoarse. Tim looked down, almost embarrassed.

“Good thing he had that very nice high-tech armour on,” Dr. Hibou said. “He would certainly be in trouble without it!”

He’d be dead. Rhys couldn’t take his eyes off the bruise. Dr. Hibour patted him again, said something to Tim about coming back for a check-up, and then she left.

Tim didn’t speak right away. He examined the wall opposite, as if fascinated by the cross-section of a stomach and intestine drawn in varying shades of pink.

“It’s nothing too serious,” Tim said at last, when the silence had gone on just a little too long. “Cracked ribs. Could’ve been a lot worse.”

Rhys breathed out hard. His vision nearly greyed out.

Tim slipped off the bed. “I like your doctor,” he said as he limped over to his discarded shirt.

The flex-weave, high-impact vest was spread out on the side table. It was a truly impressive piece of technology, a light-weight, navy-coloured material that looked as if it’d been beamed in from the future. Perfect, save for the silver dent in the very centre, where the weave had been damaged.

“She’s got a sense of humour,” Tim went on as he slowly put his arm through the sleeve. “I appreciate that in a doc.” He glanced at Rhys. He tried to smile. “So. I guess I have to start looking for a new job, huh? I hope the Atlas severance package is nice.”

“You are not,” Rhys said, “funny.”

Tim’s smile dissolved. He searched Rhys’ face.

Rhys clenched his jaw so tight he could feel it hurt up to his temples. His eye felt dried out. The ECHOeye ached. His throat felt scraped raw.

Tim sighed, his expression softening. “Rhys.” He stepped closer, unafraid. “Rhys, I’m okay.” He held his arms open.

Rhys made a strangled noise in the back of his throat and stumbled forward. He pulled Tim close and gripped him tight, the way he wanted to when they’d been in the car and Tim had looked so distant, remote. Resigned. Rhys buried his face in the juncture of Tim’s neck and shoulder.

Tim shushed him, murmured soothing nonsense. His hand rested between Rhys’ shoulder blades, warm and large. He brushed his thumb across the knot of Rhys’ spine, sweeping across the back of his neck. Rhythmic, almost hypnotic. Rhys breathed hard until he could feel it come back under his control.

“You did good, you know,” Tim said. Rhys choked back laughter. “You did. You saved our lives. If you hadn’t gotten the call through when you did…”

Rhys tightened his grip. Tim let out a quiet grunt.

“You’re an idiot,” Rhys said. “You pull a stunt like that again and I really will fire you.” He could feel the vibration of Tim’s laughter. “Don’t laugh at me, I mean it. I’m going to reassign you. I’m going to bury you in the archives, under three feet of reinforced steel and bullet-proof glass. The biggest danger you’ll find down there is a paper cut.”

Tim snorted into Rhys’ hair. “You wouldn’t,” he said, sounding strained. “You’d miss me too much.” His hand slid up, until he could cup the back of Rhys’ neck, his skull. Rhys sniffed.

Rhys didn’t know how long they stayed like that. He did what he almost never let himself do: he forgot about his responsibilities, and the world that waited for them outside. He thought only of Tim. The scent of the old alley that still clung to him, of antiseptic, of gun smoke, blood. His bare skin. The feel of his fingers in his hair, the hand at his back. Rhys’ lips were a breath away from Tim’s clavicle. He could almost taste him.

Tim cleared his throat. “Boss. Um. My ribs. Could you please…?”

Rhys loosened his grip and stepped back with great reluctance, although he could not yet bring himself to let Tim go. Tim relaxed. For the first time since Rhys stepped into the room—the first time, possibly, since their car took its first hit—Tim looked into Rhys’ eyes.

Rhys looked back. His hands twitched where they rested on Tim’s hips. Tim had managed to pull one arm through his sleeve, leaving the shirt to dangle off of his shoulder.

His. Very muscular shoulders. And his bare chest. Rhys felt familiar warmth radiate its treacherous way to his face, pool low in his stomach.

Tim must’ve spent a lot of his spare time in the gym, part of Rhys’ mind helpfully supplied.

Rhys forced himself to tear his gaze away from Tim’s chest, to look into his face because he was an adult and not a hormonal teen—only to find Tim staring fixedly at Rhys. At Rhys’ lips.

Rhys’ heart thudded. Tim swayed on his feet, rocking forward, just a little. Just enough. Rhys’ grip on Tim’s hips tightened. He leaned forward like he’d been pulled close by a force of gravity he was helpless against.

The door opened. “Rhys, my dear son, thank the heavens you’re— Oh.”

Rhys and Tim flinched apart as one deeply embarrassed entity.

Mercedes Griffiths-Whyte, wife to Richard Griffiths-Whyte and Rhys’ mother, stood in the entrance with her orchid lips parted, her dark brows almost touching her sterling hairline. She looked dressed for a night out.

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Her expression collected into a pleasant smile. “Did I interrupt?”

* * *

Tim squared his shoulders. He fixed Mercedes with a severe look.

“Ma’am,” he said. “May I ask who you are and what you’re doing here?”

Mercedes’ dark eyes sparkled. She brought her manicured hand to her painted lips. “Oh my,” she said quietly. Rhys very nearly groaned.

“It’s okay,” he said instead, because he really _was_ an adult and not a sixteen-year-old getting embarrassed by his mom. He touched his hand lightly to Tim’s bare arm. “She’s my mother.”

Tim blinked. All at once, the tension in his frame seemed to drain. “Oh.” And then his face turned pink. “Oh. Oh, god, I’m—“

Rhys patted his arm. “It’s fine,” he said. “My _mother_ wasn’t offended. Were you?”

Mercedes looked at Tim like he was a box of strawberry crème chocolates with a bow on top. “Of course not,” she said. She had the smile of a cartoon fox, long and sharp.

Rhys ushered his mother into the hall, leaving Tim his privacy to resume getting dressed. Mercedes craned her head as the door swung shut behind them, trying to steal one last eyeful.

“What a charming young man,” she said. “Did you see him before? He was ready to clock an old lady just because he thought she might be a threat.”

“He’s on edge,” Rhys muttered. His stomach wouldn’t settle. He felt like a stone that’d been overturned, exposing all the small, wriggling things to the light. He tried to steer his thoughts away from Tim, from the bruise on his chest and the look on his face as he’d leaned towards Rhys.

Mercedes examined him. “I’m so glad you’re safe,” she said lightly. “Another brush with death averted. You would’ve called me, of course.”

God, he couldn’t believe he was actually relieved she was taking him on her favourite guilt trip. Anything was better than thinking about Tim in the doctor’s office, with his open shirt and his wet, parted lips and the bruises he’d gotten because of Rhys. For Rhys. To keep him safe.

“We had just gotten away from the police, mother,” Rhys said, pushing the invasive thoughts to the corners of his mind, where they would collect dust and eventually die. “I would’ve called you as soon as we finished here.”

Mercedes put on an expression of sympathy. “Darling, I am so happy you are safe. Of course I am. Very relieved.” She placed her hand on his shoulder. “That isn’t what is making me upset.”

“It isn’t?” Rhys asked warily.

She released the golden clasp of her Hermès clutch and began to fish inside its contents. “Oh, Rhys. I know you’re a private man, but I’m your mother. You could’ve told me sooner.”

Rhys stared at her as she produced a golden clam-shell compact. “Told you… what?”

She cut her gaze to him without turning her face away from the mirror. “Sweetheart, I was born _during_ the day. Not yesterday. I knew you were reluctant to see new people, but you could have been transparent with me. Did you try to hide it from me because you thought I wouldn’t approve? I told you before that I don’t care about your preferences. This isn’t like before with that Sasha girl you were so in love with.”

Sasha’s name spoken out loud after what felt like decades of silence felt like a pin stuck into his spine. “What? What about Sasha?”

His mother went on without acknowledging he’d even spoken. “He’s older than you, which I approve of, and he’s clearly easy on the eyes, which I know _you_ approve of,” she said as she powdered her cheek. “I know you like to mock me and my insistence on the benefits of mixing business with pleasure, but his connection to Hyperion will be tremendously beneficial. Even if it means we’ll have to see his wretched brother at the wedding.”

Rhys stared at his mother. He felt, for the second time that night, as if he’d been knocked into an alternate universe. Blindsided.

“Wedding?” he managed.

“Not that I’m trying to pressure you into anything you aren’t yet ready for,” his mother continued as she touched up her lipstick. “Although you are not as young as you used to be and Timothy is close to 40, I believe. Of course that’s your business. I’d like to invite him to Thanksgiving.” She closed the compact with a snap.

“To…” Rhys’ voice failed. He felt like a ship that’d sailed into the Bermuda Triangle. The exhaustion of the last few hours weighed down every thought he tried to construct, robbing him of his usual eloquence and coherency.

The meaning behind his mother’s words caught up with him far too late. By the time he realised what she intended to do, she had opened the door and stuck her head in the doctor’s office.

“Timothy,” she said in her clear, ringing voice. “We’re having Thanksgiving in the estate up north this year, on the Saturday.”

Rhys dimly heard Tim’s voice through the pounding in his ears. He stared at his mother and wondered if he’d fallen asleep and this was all just a terrible dream.

“Do you have any dietary restrictions? Any allergies I should be aware of? No? Fabulous. I cannot wait to see you, Timothy my dear. I hope you feel better very soon. Be sure my son lets you get plenty of rest.”

Rhys had no idea what Tim said. Mercedes waved before she shut the door.

“Good.” She beamed at her son. “Oh, don’t make that face. It’ll be a lovely time. You never bring anyone home. It’ll be a nice to actually meet one of your partners for a change.” She patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll spread the word among our peers. I know you want to keep this quiet, but I think it’s a bit unseemly to court other people when you are involved with someone, don’t you? I won’t say anything specific. I know you value your privacy. I’ll just let people know that you are no longer searching for a partner.”

“You…” Awareness returned like a slap in the face, bringing the cold sting of hope. “You can do that?” he asked. “You can call them off?”

Mercedes gave her son a look. “They aren’t hounds, dear,” she said. “They will hear that you aren’t interested and your… what did you call it before? ‘Avalanche of gold diggers’? Will stop.”

Rhys gnawed his lip. This was a bad idea. But he hadn’t gotten this far in life by not gambling on the promise of a big pay-off. If it meant he could get even a brief respite from all the emails, gifts, letters, and unwanted attention…

He glanced at the closed door, smothering a brief stab of guilt. Tim would understand. There was no harm in this.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll bring Tim up on Saturday. Thank you.”

His mother smiled at him. “Good. We’ll have a lovely time.”

It won’t be forever, Rhys told himself as he waved his mother goodbye. God knows he wouldn’t be able to keep it up forever. But… maybe just for a little while. A few weeks. Until the holidays were finished. A little peace and quiet. It couldn’t hurt.

* * *

Tim refused to leave the physician’s office until Atlas security arrived to escort Rhys home. Rhys refused to leave until Tim agreed to have a security detail of his own escort _him_ home. It was a bit of a production. They bickered until half of Atlas’ security arrived to take them both away from each other, back to their homes.

Or, in Rhys’ case, to his friend’s three-bedroom townhouse condo on the north side of town, where even the subway wouldn’t go.

Vaughn’s eyes widened when he spotted the two armed guards flanking Rhys.

“They aren’t staying,” Rhys said quickly.

“Oh,” Vaughn said weakly. “Good.”

The detail remained outside, vigilant and invisible behind the tinted windows of their Atlas LR, parked on the other side of the street.

Vaughn peeked at them through parted curtains. He whistled low under his breath.

“Been a long time since I’ve seen you with the full retinue,” he said. He looked over his shoulder. “You’re like a visiting prince.”

“Okay, first of all,” Rhys said as he flopped down onto the couch. “If anything, I’m a _king_. And second of all, your text promised margaritas.” He settled back and rubbed his eyes. The ache behind his ECHO hadn’t gone anywhere, not even after a handful of extra strength Tylenol.

“Yvette’s bringing them.” Vaughn sat down beside Rhys. “Dude. I saw it on the news. Is it true your guy killed three guys?”

Rhys’ fingers twitched. “I think so. I didn’t count the body bags.” He didn’t have eyes for them, or for much of anything beyond the scrum of emergency responders who’d descended on Tim as soon as they’d arrived. When he opened his eyes, he found Vaughn watching him.

“It must’ve been intense,” he said. “Was it an assassination attempt?”

“They found zip ties in the van,” Rhys said. “Duct tape. So, probably not.”

Vaughn went pale. “Oh. Wow.” He laughed nervously. “Probably not, yeah. Wow. I’m so glad you’re safe, dude. It must’ve been…”

Rhys scrubbed his face with his soft hand. He sniffed, blinked hard several times. “It’s easily the worst thing about being rich and powerful,” he said. “You never get used to it. I remember when I was in that private school on the west coast, when I snuck out to go to the mall with a friend, and we were followed by this van…” He shook his head. “Nothing creepier on this earth than a nondescript white van, Vaughn.”

“I believe it,” Vaughn said.

“I was terrified,” Rhys said. He stared at the wall, gaze resting on the tasteful font triptych Vaughn had bought at Crate & Barrel. “But Tim… Tim didn’t even hesitate. Not for a second. I’d never seen anything like it.” He saw it again when he closed his eyes.

Tim with the gun in both hands, taking aim, taking shot after shot. Three bad guys on the ground, and more coming to bleed for him. Rhys, huddled in the back seat of the car, cursing at every technological advance from the lightbulb onward, fumbling his way through the cricket’s field until he could boost the signal beyond it. Praying that someone might hear the gunfire, but there was no one around. The sound of traffic far above drowned them out.

Then the shot Rhys hadn’t seen but he’d heard. Tim fell.

Rhys shuddered with his entire body. He scrubbed at his face again.

The front door burst open, bouncing against the exposed brick wall that served as Vaughn’s entry way. Yvette marched inside, hefting reusable bags filled with clinking bottles.

“Did someone say _margaritas_?” she crowed, rolling the R.

“Yvette!” Rhys and Vaughn both sprang up from the couch. “You can’t just burst in here,” Vaughn said.

“Help me with these bags, will you?” she said as Vaughn rushed past, ignoring her in favour of examining his wall. “Rhys, be a gentleman.” She shoved them into his arms.

“You could’ve gotten shot, Yvette,” Rhys said, bending a little under the weight. “Jesus, what did you pack? Cinderblocks?”

“You could’ve chipped this,” Vaughn said as he scratched at the exposed brick.

“Limes and simple syrup, tequila and Cointreau. The ingredients for happiness.” She patted Rhys on the cheek. “Be a dear and set it up. And relax, I got your text earlier. I went to check-in with your security team before I came to the front door. I even offered them a drink, but they weren’t interested.”

“Good.” Rhys grunted as he set the bags onto the granite countertop of Vaughn’s kitchen island. “I think Athena’d skin them alive if they were caught drinking on the job.”

“Her or your boy, certainly,” Yvette agreed. “Speaking of, I heard he took a real hero’s turn today. Is it true he put three more notches into his belt defending your skinny behind?”

“Notches…?” Rhys’ expression twisted as he pulled out four bottles, a bag of limes, and a glass bottle of a clear, syrupy liquid. “That’s a breath-takingly callous way of talking about human lives.”

Yvette shrugged, unconcerned. “So, did he?”

“He did,” Vaughn confirmed as he came up to the counter. He picked up one of the bottles, reading the label with the air of a connoisseur. “Oooh, a four year. Apparently he got shot, though. Rhys is still a little…” He tilted his head and waggled his brows meaningfully at Yvette. She nodded with perfect understanding.

Rhys felt a twang of pain behind his brows. “It was a bad day,” he said. “And that’s the second time someone called Tim ‘my boy’. What is it supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it means,” Yvette said as she pulled a cork free. “Someone start cutting some damn limes. I’m thirsty. He’s your boy.”

“He’s not my anything,” Rhys snapped as he pulled out a stool and sat down at the island. “And I nearly got killed today. Someone else cut the damn limes. He’s my employee. We’re _professionals_.”

Yvette snorted as she poured a generous amount of amber liquid into a pitcher. Vaughn made a face as he sliced a lime in half.

“We are,” Rhys insisted. “We’re friends and professionals. Professional friends. Do you guys call him that behind my back?”

Yvette cut a side-long look at Vaughn, who rolled his eyes skyward. “That’s _one_ of the things we call him,” she said, turning her attention back to Rhys. She grinned at his scowl. “That’s not even the worst one.”

Rhys crossed his arms. “Do I even want to know…?”

Vaughn clapped his shoulder with a hand that smelled like citrus. “No, buddy. No you don’t.”

Behind his back, Yvette caught Rhys’ eye and mouthed something that looked very much like the word ‘pet’. She winked as his face grew hot.

Rhys steered the conversation away from his employee slash friend and their near-death experience. Yvette and Vaughn went willingly, happy to talk instead about work, their days, the people they had to deal with on a regular basis. Yvette became vocal about the apparent idiots who worked in her department, and the idiots who worked outside of her department, and everyone in between. She scolded Rhys for hiring so many lazy fools, one of her favourite complaints, as she handed him a large glass filled with sloshing green liquid.

Rhys sipped as she and Vaughn argued about the new software the accounting department was trying to implement, and all the new directives that were coming down the pike. Tequila’s welcome burn hit the back of his sinuses, a flick cushioned by the taste of sweet citrus, and a hint of salt. Yvette had always been a heavy and generous hand. He took another, longer drink as their conversation turned towards their favourite reality program, a show where a bunch of people were sent to a tropical resort to try to kiss each other. Rhys listened happily, let the current of their voices take them all over to the leather couch, where he could properly melt into its soft embrace.

“…it’ll be Maevis and Andy, I promise you,” Vaughn said firmly. “They’ve already bonded over those pictures of his kids. And she’s a primary school teacher, so you know she’s good with ‘em. The kids are the way in.”

“Yeah, but she and Ford shared that pizza date. There was some real chemistry on that pizza date. Every time the camera cut to him, he was laughing at her jokes,” she said.

Vaughn flapped his hand dismissively. “That could just be editing. Rhys, what do you think? Maevis and Andy, or Maevis and Ford?”

“I haven’t had time to watch any Bachelor show since post-grad, Vaughn,” Rhys said. He had a warm buzz under his skin and his second drink resting on his chest, his fingers locked around the stem, keeping it steady. “I miss it though. Buncha crazy kids who like to kiss.”

“Remember when we had enough time to form fantasy leagues?” Vaughn sighed. “I miss it. I miss being a dumb kid with a lot of free time.”

“We were broke as fuck,” Yvette said. “Most of us, anyway.” She nudged Rhys’ leg with her bare foot.

“I was broke in spirit,” Rhys said. Yvette laughed. “Broke in solidarity,” he insisted.

“Bullshit,” she said without heat.

“Now we barely have time to meet up unless one of us nearly dies. Mo’ money mo’ problems,” Vaughn said with a heavy sigh. He took another drink.

Rhys fiddled with the stem of his glass. He looked at the television screen. Vaughn had turned it to some music station, but he’d turned the volume down so low that all Rhys could hear was a whisper of bass and what sounded like a horn section. He thought about Carly Rae Jepsen, and the song came back to him in a rush.

_Before you came into my life, I missed you so bad._

“Do you want to talk about it?” Vaughn asked, watching Rhys with a serious expression on his face.

“I don’t know,” Rhys admitted while the ear worm played on between his ears. “Maybe. It happened pretty fast…”

Without really meaning to, the words came out. He told them about the lunch, being stood up for the first time since high school, and the ride that should’ve taken them both back to the office. The van that hit them, and the cars that gave chase. How quickly Tim adapted to the situation, taking control as best he could, like he’d been born into it. Getting railroaded and herded, isolated from the pack. The cricket that cut the car’s signal off. Tim leaving to buy him some time.

“I threatened to fire him,” Rhys said.

 

“Intense,” Vaughn said. Yvette stood up and took their empty glasses. “But he did save you. Kind of cold, dude.”

“I just wanted him to stay,” Rhys said. He stared at the screen and watched as a pair of white people ran naked through the streets of New York City.

Yvette returned a moment later, right as he needed her most, and handed him his refill. “What happened after?”

“Oh, man.” Rhys ran one hand down his face. “The craziest fucking thing. You won’t—. Okay.” He sat up. “So, I finally get Tim away from the medics and drag him to Dr. Hibou’s practice where I can get him properly patched up…” He told them about the way his shock caught up to him in his doctor’s office, and the platonic embrace he shared with Tim. He omitted several details that he did not feel were relevant to the story. “And then my mom walked in just as we were hugging for, like, two seconds. She thought I was— that we were— that something was going on between us.” He shook his head and lifted his glass. “She’s invited him to Thanksgiving. As my boyfriend. Crazy, right?”

He drank deeply. His friends exchanged looks.

“What?” he asked when he came up for air. The alcohol had started to gang up on him, overwhelming his thoughts in a fuzzy wave. “What?” he demanded as Yvette pursed her lips and Vaughn looked down at his glass. They both looked like they were trying not to smile.

“It’s crazy,” Rhys insisted.

“If you say so, dude,” Vaughn replied.

“There’s roughly a couple hundred or so of your insane fans who’d disagree with you though,” Yvette said as she ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “I know you go googling yourself. Don’t pretend like you haven’t heard about _Rhimothy_.”

Vaughn choked on his next sip. “Wh— _Rhimothy_?” he sputtered, turning bright red. “Really? That’s what—? Oh, I need to see this.”

“It’s nothing, it’s just some people blowing things out of proportion as usual,” Rhys said as Vaughn grabbed his laptop from the coffee table. “I mean. They think I’m dating basically every single man I’ve ever been photographed with.”

“It’s a popular one, though,” Yvette said, crossing her legs and sitting back.

Vaughn paused mid-type. “More popular than ours?” he asked, turning puppy-dog eyes onto Rhys.

Rhys scowled. “It doesn’t matter! It’s silly and it’s not based on anything and stop looking at my forums.” He lunged for the laptop, but he was tired and his third drink in the last two hours had made him clumsy. Vaughn easily avoided him. A familiar black and gold webpage appeared on the screen, and Rhys saw his own airbrushed face staring soulfully back at him.

“God, every time I see that picture…” Vaughn shook his head as he clicked into the forums. Yvette giggled. Rhys grumbled at them both and took a consoling sip from his half-empty glass.

“You’re wasting your time,” he said. “You’re not going to prove anything to me by pulling up forum threads and, like, some kind of candid photo where Tim has his hand on my arm or whatever.”

“Does he do that a lot? Hold your arm?” Yvette aimed a smile at him over the rim of her glass. “Does he hold other things, Rhys? With his big strong hands?”

“Shut up.” Rhys groped around for a pillow to chuck at her head, but there weren’t any. Yvette laughed at him again. He drank the anger away and tried very hard not to think about Tim’s hands, or about the fact that they had been on him only hours ago.

“There’s gotta be stories. News is out about what happened today, right?” Yvette asked, leaning over Vaughn’s shoulder. “There’s gotta be a bunch of fanfictions about the big strong hero saving the swooning damsel in distress. Rhys crying in Tim’s arms. Don’t let me down, internet.”

“I am not a damsel,” Rhys snapped. That he had, in fact, been crying in Tim’s arms earlier that day was neither here nor there.

She was probably right, though. No doubt the press had gotten a hold of the story of the latest attempt on Rhys’ life. He knew how his fans would react. He rubbed at his eyes and sighed, long-suffering and very patient.

“What is it?” he said when Vaughn and Yvette didn’t speak up. “What did you find? How bad is it?”

“Well.” Vaughn cleared his throat. “The, uh. The news did pick up the story.”

“But that’s not the only story the news got,” Yvette said, sounding breathless. “Oh my god, Vaughn. Oh my _god_.” She sounded giddy.

Rhys sat up, his hand falling away from his face. “What is it?” He scooted forward, pushing Yvette aside. “What is it? What’d they write? What…?”

A news site with a pink and yellow header lit up the screen. An image of Tim helping Rhys step out of his car sat below a headline that loudly declared: ‘ATLAS MOGUL AND EMPLOYEE ROMANCE? CUE THE WHITNEY HOUSTON.’

“Oooooooohhh migod,” Yvette said. She gripped Rhys’ shoulder, nails digging in through his shirt. “Oh my god.”

“Dude,” Vaughn said, sitting back. “Looks like that’s the end of the office betting pool. What were we up to? Two hundred?” He looked to Yvette.

“They can’t… It’s not…” Rhys blinked. “Wait. _Office betting pool?”_

* * *

The night degenerated from there. Yvette and Vaughn dug into the sites and tried to unearth more stories about Rhys’ imaginary tryst with Tim. To Rhys’ incredible displeasure, they didn’t have to look very hard.

“It all came up so fast,” Yvette marveled. “I wonder if they had something prepared ahead of time. Like those celebrity obituaries they write before the famous jerk even kicks it. The media’s just been waiting for the excuse to make all these Whitney Houston and Kevin Costner jokes.”

“We should watch The Bodyguard,” Vaughn said.

“I’ll fire you both,” Rhys said.

They ordered pizza. Rhys’ security paid for it on a company card, and then delivered it to the front door.

Yvette, already four drinks into the evening, invited the poor woman to join them for a bite. She politely declined.

“Stop trying to entice my security to shirk their duties,” Rhys said.

“They can do a better job of looking after you if they’re in the house,” Yvette said. “Or is that kind of special consideration only reserved for your boooooyfrienndd?” She sang the word like a schoolyard taunt. Rhys chucked a wad of napkins at her face.

“Is he okay?” Vaughn asked, laying his head on the back of the couch. “I meant to ask. I forgot. But he’s fine, right? The vest saved him and everything?”

“No, he died,” Yvette said. “He’s dead and that’s why Rhys is here eating pizza.” She ducked another wad of napkins aimed for her face. “Too slow!”

“He’s fine,” Rhys said, turning away from Yvette. “He went home.”

“Alone?” Vaughn asked. Yvette cackled like the witch she was.

After killing another pitcher of margaritas, Yvette and Vaughn started flipping through the Roku apps, looking for the streaming service that carried old episodes of the Bachelor. Vaughn insisted Rhys catch up. Yvette bribed him with another pitcher.

“We could order in some chocolate cake,” she said, as if pairing cake with margaritas was meant to entice Rhys. “We should put on BiP. No, no, not Tallya’s season of Bachelorette.”

“Tallya’s season is great,” Vaughn insisted as he scrolled through their options.

“BiP! Put on BiP!”

Rhys’ phone buzzed in his pocket.

He had silenced it earlier in the evening, knowing that he would be in for a deluge of messages from concerned associates and other people he wasn’t interested in hearing from. But there were a few contacts who received priority treatment, whose notifications could at least set off the vibration on Rhys’ cell. Two of the three people on that list were in the room with him.

Rhys said they could put on whatever they wanted and excused himself. He knew better than to check his phone with Yvette around, especially when she’d had a few. He locked the bathroom door behind him.

Tim is the Rest: made it home hours ago. sorry i didn’t mention it sooner.  
Tim is the Rest: are you still at vauhgn’s?  
Rhys is The Best: *vaughn  
Rhys is The Best: yeah i’m here. we’re drinking mmmmmmmmargaritas.  
Tim is the Rest: lol  
Rhys is The Best: r u ok?

Rhys sat down as Tim typed his reply. He could hear Yvette shouting at the screen on the other side of the door. Someone on the show had kissed someone they weren’t supposed to, apparently.

Tim is the Rest: i’m ok. got an earful from Jack.  
Tim is the Rest: Angel was pretty upset…  
Rhys is The Best: r u alone?  
Tim is the Rest: lol why are you asking ;)

Rhys’ face burned. He typed in a hurry.

Tim is the Rest: if you ask me for naughty pics i’m gonna go to hr  
Rhys is The Best: i’m just worried about you you nearly did today  
Rhys is The Best: *died  
Rhys is The Best: you shouldn’t be alone rgith now

Both Yvette and Vaughn cheered as peppy music played in the other room. Someone they liked had appeared on screen, or so Rhys guessed.

Tim is the Rest: ;)  
Rhys is The Best: stop winking at me this is serious. is there someone you can call?  
Tim is the Rest: i’m fine boss.

 _I’m fine_. How many times had Tim said that to him? And how many times had he meant it? Rhys’ heart thumped.

He needed to hear Tim’s voice. _Needed_ to in a way he rarely let himself need anything. He didn’t know why, but he knew it would make him feel better.

He swallowed, glanced at the closed door and bit his lip. Judging by the sound of their voices, Vaughn and Yvette had started on the next pitcher. Likely, they would be preoccupied for a while.

Rhys pressed the call button.

“Rhys.” Tim’s voice was low and concerned. The phone barely rang once before he picked up. “Is everything okay?”

 “Good. I’m good. Just wanted to...” Rhys swayed a little as he spoke. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. “See… how you were doing.”

“What?” A huff of breath. “Weren’t we just talking? Or was that someone else using your phone a minute ago?”

“It was me. But you said you were fine which…” Rhys didn’t know why it bothered him, or even what bothered him in particular. Every coherent thought had to swim its way to the fore of his mind through a lake of tequila, lime juice, and sugar water.

“You say that a lot,” Rhys struggled on. “That you’re fine. You almost never mean it. It’s, like, a red flag.”

Tim was silent for several interminable seconds. Rhys counted them, and quickly lost count.

“Well, this time I meant it,” Tim said.

“I could’ve… I mean, we could’ve… Tonight, you didn’t have to go home alone, I mean.” Rhys didn’t know exactly what he was trying to say. He had the feeling that he was skirting something dangerous, but he was having a lot of feelings and it was easy to ignore that one.

Tim sighed again, more quietly. “Rhys, does the fact that I’m whispering not tip you off to something?” he asked. Rhys’ brows furrowed. “I’m _not_ alone, dummy.”

Rhys felt as if a plug had been pulled inside of him, draining the warmth from his stomach. Had Tim found someone again so soon after splitting from Marco?

“That makes sense,” Rhys said before his brain could catch up. “Plenty of nice people out there. Should’ve figured you’d find… find someone else.”

Tim muttered something too low for Rhys to hear. “It’s Angel, stupid. Jack brought her to be a guilt prop in his little one act show. She wanted to spend the night with me.”

Rhys struggled. A burst of laughter and jaunty music came in through the shut door. “Guilt prop?” he managed.

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later,” Tim replied.

“Okay.” Rhys wondered if he sounded as disappointed as he felt. Rhys glanced at his reflection and saw that he was pouting. He tried to scowl, but it only made him pout harder. “I’m glad you’re okay. And that there’s someone there. I didn’t—. The thought of you alone—. I didn’t like it.”

“Okay.” Tim sounded amused. “Thanks for letting me know, boss.”

“Don’t be alone,” Rhys said. “And don’t drink too much.”

“I don’t drink when I’m looking after Angel,” Tim said. “Any other orders?”

The warmth had come back, growing slow in the place it’d left empty before, rising like rain in a basin. Rhys ran his finger along the curve of his ear and thought about the things he wanted Tim to do. The kind of orders he could give. 

“I think that’s it for now,” he said as smoothly as he could manage. “I’ll let you know if I think of anything else.”

“Yeah, looking forward to it.” Tim definitely sounded amused, the jerk. “Glad you’re having fun tonight. Maybe take it easy on the margaritas.”

“I almost died today, Tim,” Rhys said. “That’s what margaritas are for.”

“You’ll regret it in the morning,” Tim said.

“Yolo, Tim. Yolo,” Rhys replied, very seriously. Tim laughed.

“God, you sound stupid,” he said.

“Huh.” Rhys sniffed. “I thought of something else: you should stay home tomorrow. Get some rest.”

Tim hummed. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

“I mean it. Just relax a little,” Rhys said. “It wouldn’t hurt.”

“Good night, Rhys. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“A vacation day, Tim. A real one!” But Tim had already hung up.

* * *

 

Traffic was good, at least. And the sun was up, changing the sky to steel. Weak light came down through the clouds crawling across the sky, casting flares of gold on the high windows of the glass buildings that stood like monoliths on either side of the street.

No roads were closed. There’d been no bloodshed in the downtown, no carnage on any of the roads that might’ve mattered to Tim and his commute. He thought he caught the glitter of broken glass on the side of Glencairn Rd, but he couldn’t be certain. Tim flexed his hands on the wheel and tried to relax.

Tim had woken up to a flooded inbox. He ignored most of it and checked on the single email Athena had sent him. The body was short and to the point. The police were handling the investigation. Atlas security had done its job and would continue to assist in whichever way they were required to. In the meantime, security would be tightened around the office and Rhys’ apartment building. And that was it.

Tim read it a few times, and the attached PDF, which had included information about the young woman who’d stood Rhys up. Who didn’t, apparently, exist.

Seeing no reason not to, Tim called Athena.

“You couldn’t even let me drink my coffee first?” she asked by way of greeting.

“It’s after 7am,” Tim said, without apology. Athena growled. “Hey, it’s like my old sarge used to say: rise before the sun or I’ll kick your ass over the mountain and into the next country, Lawrence.”

“Your old sarge can still kick your ass,” she said.

“You’ve gone soft,” Tim said with a smile he knew she could hear. “Married life has dulled your edge.”

“I’ll dull your edge,” she said. “What do you want, Tim, as if I couldn’t guess?”

“I got your email,” he said.

Athena sighed. “I don’t know what else you need. Our security team has done its job, even if it’s a bit too late. We got soft over this stupid dating thing.  We didn’t scrutinize his matches closely enough. Our background check on ‘Rose Valdez’ didn’t raise any flags, but we should’ve been more thorough. There’s no excuse.” She sounded angry.

Tim tapped his finger against the curve of the wheel. That was his fault too, and he knew it. He’d gotten lax. Complacent. Soft.

“I’ve already sent a note to Moxxi. The cops are gonna question her directly, I expect,” Athena went on.

“You think she might be in on it?” he asked.

“My gut says no, but who the hell knows,” she said.

“She has too much to lose,” Tim agreed. “What about Rhys? Should we expect another visit from the detectives any time soon?”

“The boss gave his statement yesterday. The car’s got onboard cameras, so they’ve got a record of the whole thing.” She took a pointed, noisy slurp of her coffee. “I told the police we’ll cooperate, but I implied that it might be best to leave him out of their proceedings.”

Tim hummed, relieved. “That’s good. Rhys has been through plenty and he’s still got that Maliwan thing on his plate.”

Athena didn’t reply. The quiet collective purr of other cars filled the cab. Tim cleared his throat, suddenly uneasy.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Athena replied slowly. “I guess the boss was rattled yesterday.” Tim made a noise of agreement as he leaned over the dash, watching the traffic merge up ahead. “What about you, Tim?”

“Me? Fine.”

Woke up sore as hell, like he’d come down with a ‘flu, or like he’d been a little too overzealous at the gym the night before. His chest throbbed every time he tried to lift his arms. The over the counter painkillers he’d taken might as well’ve been Smarties for all the good they were doing him. 

Still. He was breathing and in one piece. Plenty of ways the firefight yesterday could’ve gone worse. No need to complain. Certainly no need to take a vacation day.

“You’re not as young as you used to be,” Athena said, sounding strange.

“No one is.” Tim frowned. The obsidian blade of the Atlas building loomed closer. Sunlight broke through the clouds just in time to touch its mirrored surface, slashing a golden edge down its length. Tim’s gaze was drawn upwards, to the penthouse office, where his boss was certainly nursing a hangover, waiting for his uptight personal assistant to arrive.

And waiting for Tim. For his breakfast and his coffee and his stupid smoothie. For his make-up to be applied and his collar to be smoothed and his tie adjusted. For Tim to put him together just right.

Tim felt grateful no one could see him in that moment. He was particularly grateful he couldn’t see himself. No doubt he had some idiot’s smile on his face.

“Janey’s worried about you,” Athena said.

“Still?” That put a damper on his good mood.

Janey meant well. She meant well for everyone. It was one of her finest qualities.

“She’s got some new names for you,” Athena said, sounded guarded. “Hot singles, or so she tells me.”

“I think I’ve had my fill,” Tim said. “But tell her I said thanks.”

“Tell her yourself,” Athena said with a sniff. “If you want to play Waylon Smithers to Mr. Burns up on the 68th floor, that’s your business. No skin off my neck.”

“That’s a change of tune for you,” he said. “You were ready to jump down my throat a few months back just for that whole sick day stunt.”

“That was back when I still had hope for you. I’ve given you up for a lost cause,” she said. “Speaking of, I don’t suppose you’ve looked at the news this morning?”

The car slowed on its approach to the centre of the financial district, where traffic would be densest for the next four hours. The Atlas building was now too close to see properly, sitting proudly at 101 Empire Street. Tim tipped his head back and tried to watch it anyway. Looking at the road made him nervous.

 “I saw a few stories,” he answered absently as someone merged into the lane ahead of him. “Police investigation ongoing, unexpected violence in the heart of our fair city, possible failures of society to blame, blah blah blah. I skimmed a lot.” He hated seeing his name in ink. “Why?”

A traffic light flicked to red, and cyclists whizzed past. Tim focused on the sidewalk for the first time since he pulled in and spotted a knot of people standing in front of the Atlas’ entrance. He frowned.

“Oh. Maybe you should take a more thorough look when you get into the office,” she said and now he could hear her smile through the line. “Take your time with it. I think you’ll find something interesting.” On that cryptic note, she ended the call.

Some were dressed in sleek pea coats, and others were dressed in those puffy monstrosities that made them look like colourful marshmallows. Almost like they’d planned it ahead of time, every single marshmallow had a camera in their hands and the pea coats had sleek recording devices in theirs. They watched the road like meerkats watching the veldt for a flash of a lion’s mane.

The press. Tim growled. He had expected something like this, but he’d privately hoped a bigger story might’ve brewed overnight. No luck, it seemed.

The car finally pulled to a stop right into his scheduled parking spot in front of the entrance. Tim sighed as the press turned their lenses on his blackout windows. They would descend as soon as he stepped foot onto the sidewalk. He only hoped they wouldn’t keep him. He hated to be late.

Tim opened the door and they did, in fact, descend upon him like chattering vultures on a carcass. He ducked his head down, buried as much of his face as he could into his open collar, and wished for the hundredth time that he owned a damn scarf. Cameras flashed mere feet from his face, disorienting and nearly blinding. He held out one hand and tried to push his way through the scrum.

The journalists were all talking at once, a sound he could tune out like the white noise drone of a fan. He occasionally picked out his own name, and Rhys’, from the wall of sound. He also heard the words ‘gun’ and ‘death’ more than once.

“No comment, no comment,” he murmured as he tried to muscle his way through without actually pushing anyone over. Some asshole brought his camera down in front of Tim’s face and took a photo, the flash going off like a sunrise an inch from his nose. Tim stumbled a bit, rubbed at his eyes, and very seriously considered drawing his weapon.

The momentary lapse was all the opening they needed. They surrounded him, like vultures descending on roadkill.

“Mr. Lawrence, do you know the identity of the woman—?”

“Mr. Lawrence, can you comment on the make of the vehicle that chased you—?”

“Mr. Lawrence, Mr. Lawrence, do you have anything to say about the debate against automated self-driving vehicles now—?”

“God, no fucking comment.” Tim tried to shoulder past.

“Mr. Lawrence, does this mean that Griffiths-Whyte is no longer pursing a romantic relationship—?”

 A smaller woman pushed her dogged way to the front of the mob, her recording device clutched in her bare, red hands.

“Mr. Lawrence, Joanne Hung from the Weekly here!” Another flash and Tim actually did growl. The smaller woman shoved the photographer aside and began to speak more quickly as Tim lunged for the door. “Mr. Lawrence, do you have any comment at all about the rumours of a romanticrelationshipbetweenyourselfandMr.Griffiths-Whyte?”

Tim stopped, his hand on the door handle. He looked at Joanne Hung from the Weekly.

“The… pardon?”

“The rumours.” She looked as if she were fighting off a triumphant smile. “An unnamed source has come forward and gone on record saying that you were seen embracing Griffiths-Whyte at the private medical practice yesterday evening. Without your shirt on.” She held up her device to Tim’s pale face. “Do you have any comment?” she asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Will Tim comment???? Will he be late???? Stay tuned.
> 
> Thank you for reading, kudos'ing, reviewing, whatever you like.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter chapter. This was previously the latter half of the first chapter, before I decided that maybe 18k was too long for a single entry.

Tim was late. Nearly five minutes, probably the longest he’d ever been held up. It rankled a little, but the irritation was a distant concern, buried under a mountain of stunned disbelief. He felt like a cartoon character that’d been hit in the head with a frying pan. His head still vibrated with the shock.

Rhys sat on his leather and gold throne, slumped over his desk with his head in his hand. A wall of violet and blue screens stood between them, but Tim could see Rhys’ exhausted expression through the cracks between the squares. Even with Joanne Hung’s words still clanging between his ears, the sight of it made something flare like the glow of an ember inside of Tim.

Rhys was safe. In one piece.

He perked from his slump when the door opened. The clouds from his expression cleared when he laid eyes on Tim. Or, Tim supposed, on the steaming thermos of coffee in his hand.

“Ohhh that’s what I wanted to see,” Rhys said, reaching out with grabby hands. “That’s the good stuff, yes. Come to papa.” Rhys made a frankly pornographic sound as he took the thermos from Tim’s hand, brought it up to his face and inhaled deeply.

“Gross,” Tim said, setting the green-grey detox smoothie on Rhys’ desk.

Rhys stroked the cup. “Don’t listen to him, baby. He just doesn’t understand us.”

“Gross!” Tim called out as he pulled their plates out for breakfast. “Your clothes better still be on when I turn around or I _will_ quit.”

Rhys murmured something else to his coffee, more sweet nothings too low for Tim to make out, which suited him just fine.

As he worked through his morning routine—set down the plates, pull out the cutlery and linen napkins, unwrap Rhys’ breakfast burrito (with extra coconut bacon and soyrizo)—Tim finally relaxed.

Everything that’d happened to him downstairs was miles away, as forgettable as small change rolling under a couch. Atlas security buzzed through the building. Extra identification features were required to gain access to Rhys’ office today, and likely for the foreseeable future. Any would-be kidnapper or assassin would have to fight their way through a phalanx of their finest people and dystopic security measures just to take a shot at the king. They’d have to go through Tim.

Rhys glared at him as he set down their breakfast. Even that couldn’t bother him.

“What?” he asked, regardless.

“I told you to take a vacation day,” Rhys said.

Tim snagged his chair from behind his desk and rolled it across the floor. “I said I would take it under advisement.”

“You should be resting,” Rhys said with a pout. Tim had to look away, had to hide his smile. The strange urges that’d been nipping at the heel of every thought always got worse when Rhys made that face.

Joanne Hung’s words came swimming back to the fore of his mind, the faux-innocent look on her face when she’d asked for a comment. Beyond it, clear as day, he could see the way Rhys had looked at him the night before, when they had been alone in the doctor’s office. When Rhys wouldn’t take his hands off of Tim. Gripping him tight like he was afraid he might lose him.

Never mind. Tim dashed the thought aside and sat down. He’d thought they’d been alone, but apparently someone had snooped. He wondered if it might’ve been Rhys’ stylish mother, but she didn’t seem like the sort of person who would go talking to the Weekly.

“You need some rest,” Rhys went on doggedly as he picked up his burrito. “A real vacation. Tell me you’re at least going to take the holidays off.”

Tim’s lips twisted. “God, I’ll have to. Every year Jack drags us to his private villa in Hawaii.” He twisted the cap from his thermos and inhaled discretely. “A solid week on a private beach with no civilization,” he said with a sad sigh.

“Poor baby,” Rhys said.

“I know, I know. Maui is lovely. But do me a favour and imagine what it would be like.” Tim sat back and spread his hands. “You’re on a relatively remote beach, stuck with Jack. The closest piece of civilization is a gas station with a corner store and it’s a few miles away. And Jack gets bored _easily_. And we’re there for a solid damn _week_. The only pros in that situation is how long it would take for the authorities to locate the body.” He sighed and shook out his napkin. “At least the scenery’s nice. And Angel enjoys it, although she spends most of her time with the other kids.” He peeled the foil from his non-vegetarian breakfast burrito carefully. “Jack always sulks.”

“Christmas in Hawaii still doesn’t sound that bad,” Rhys said before he took a bite.

Tim chewed thoughtfully. “I guess not,” he said. “I just prefer cold. I like a white Christmas. White sand beaches and a palm tree with a star on the top just isn’t the same.”

“We used to go to British Columbia for our Christmases,” Rhys said. “My father owned a lodge up in Whistler. It was fine if you enjoyed skiing, which I didn’t. I spent most of my visit either in my room or pretending to learn how to snowboard so I could spend time with the cute instructor.”

“Poor baby,” Tim said.

Rhys sniffed and carefully extracted a chunk of coconut bacon from his wrap. “One year we went to Nagano, to the hot springs. That was nice.”

Tim hummed and sat back, picturing it. Steam curling from a still pool of hot water, the crisp air in his lungs and on his face, the lavender snow-topped mountain peaks. Real snow and real cold.

Rhys with water coming up to his chin, and all of his strange blue tattoos on display. Tim had considered what they might look like, before. He gave it more consideration now, and didn’t feel even a little bad for doing so.

Things between him and Rhys had gotten… interesting in the last few weeks. Rhys still seemed skittish about everything, but he hadn’t tried to push Tim away again. Tim felt more certain about what he wanted, and what he suspected Rhys wanted too, but it still felt fragile. Even putting words around it inside the safety of his own head felt… dangerous. As if admitting what he wanted, even to himself, would summon a wave of longing and desire so strong it would submerge him completely.

Or maybe he was just a coward.

“That does sound nice,” Tim said giving Rhys a lazy smile.

They ate in comfortable silence, Rhys’ face gaining more and more colour with each greasy, soy-laden bite of burrito. Tim gathered their dishes when they were finished and left Rhys to drink the last of his coffee. He set it outside their door for the cleaning crew, in time to see Todd arrive for the morning. He nodded companionably at him while Todd shot a sour look in response.

“By the way,” Tim said as he returned. “I don’t suppose you noticed the crowd of reporters downstairs?”

Rhys pulled a face, either from the mention of the press or because he’d just taken his first sip of the detox shake. “Security hustled me in through the underground entrance. Why?” He looked up, brows furrowed. “Did they try to stop you?”

“They did everything short of hip checking me to the pavement and holding me down,” Tim said as he circled the desk. He opened the make-up drawer and pulled out a tube of BB cream, a jar of foundation, a blending sponge, a wide brush, and the white setting powder.

Rhys’ expression of disgust melted into concern. “Did they hurt you?”

Tim unscrewed the cap from the BB cream, and said, “No. Although I got close to hurting them.”

Rhys didn’t look reassured. “I told you to stay home today.”

Tim hummed, unconcerned. He placed his fingers under Rhys’ chin and tipped his head back. “And I told you that you don’t need to worry about me,” he said as he began to work on the circles under Rhys’ eyes. “I’m fine.”

But still, Rhys frowned. Tim almost hated how endearing he found it. As if he needed further proof of just how bad he had it for this idiot. It’d be so much easier, he reflected, if Rhys were just a little more… self-aware. He seemed to be completely oblivious to his own feelings as he was to everyone else’s. Tim could be patient, even if it asked a lot of him.

He could be patient enough to wait until he had his hands on Rhys before he asked the question he’d been thinking about since Joanne Hung ambushed him.

“They had some interesting things to say to me,” Tim began carefully. Rhys had closed his eyes, relaxing under Tim’s hands. He hummed to show he was still listening. “One of them asked me about our, uh.” He cleared his throat. “Romantic relationship?”

Rhys’ eyes sprang open. He didn’t jump back, but Tim could feel the flinch under his skin. For just the barest hint of a moment, there was a ripple in the placid calm of Rhys’ expression.

And then the walls were up, and Rhys became the CEO of Atlas.

“Oh,” he said, sounding bored. He closed his eyes once more. “Is that all?”

Tim frowned, but stored Rhys’ reaction away to think about later. “You knew about this?”

Rhys puffed a breath across Tim’s palm as he worked. “Of course. I’m surprised you didn’t. It’s just some stupid rumour. They’re always talking about who I’m sleeping with. They almost never get it right.”

Tim set aside the sponge. He unscrewed the cap from a tub of foundation, picked up the brush, and cupped his free hand under Rhys’ chin, tilting his face to the side.

“Someone saw us yesterday. In Hibou’s office,” Tim said.

Rhys’ must’ve been ready this time. Nothing showed on his face.

But he had other tells. Tim felt a shiver in his jaw.

“That’s disappointing to hear,” Rhys said, still bored. “I’ll have to have words with Dr. Hibou. The people who work for her are supposed to know better than to go tattling to the press about innocent, platonic gestures of affection.”

Tim pressed his lips together. Innocent and platonic, huh?

“Don’t worry about it, Tim,” Rhys said. “It’s just some fluff. They’ll get bored with it eventually and move on.”

He kept his eyes closed as he spoke. Tim swept his thumb down to the soft underside of Rhys’ jaw, where he could just feel the whisper of his pulse. He applied a very light pressure, just briefly, just to see.

Rhys’ breathing hitched. Tim drew his hand back, satisfied.

“If you say so, boss,” he said, and slid to his feet.

* * *

Rhys felt as if he’d recovered nicely from the shock of Tim’s words. Really, he shouldn’t have had any reaction in the first place. He was smart enough to know that Tim would find out about those insane rumours eventually. He was certainly smart enough to know that the press would come after Tim for comments.

Fortunately, he was also smart enough to know that Tim wouldn’t talk. It was fine. Everything would be fine. Rhys’ gaze drifted to his calendar display, to the upcoming Saturday like a blister on his week.

He sighed through his nose and looked away. He would have to deal with the Thanksgiving issue some other time,  when he didn’t have other, more important things on his plate.

He began to pick through his emails as Tim settled into his own desk, slipping on his ECHOgloves and calling up his own swarm of blue-violet screens. Rhys kept half an eye on him as he sucked down the last of his smoothie. The sight of Tim in his office, at his desk, wearing the technology Rhys’ company created, working on Rhys’ reports, made something inside Rhys’ chest unclench. Tim was safe, and he was exactly where he belonged.

Rhys’ inbox was still flooded with personal emails, but the tone of the messages had changed. No longer were there invites for private dinners or yacht trips to the Bahamas, offers of prime tickets to Broadway shows, rides in someone’s private jet for a weekend get-away to the Alps. Instead, the only thing offered was resigned congratulations and some amount of regret for Rhys’ apparent romantic bliss. Many rather bold individuals offered their discretion, should Rhys find himself bored with monogamy. Closing the proverbial door while boldly keeping the window open. Rhys had to admire that kind of audacity, although it did not stop him from deleting every offer.

There were, thank god, some actual work emails he could catch up on. He did so for the next two hours.

Tim worked in silence, humming now and then whenever he saw something he liked. The routine of it all soothed Rhys as well as any Japanese hot spring could.

Eventually, he came to the emails he’d been dreading: the latest on Atlas’ stock.

One of his father’s last acts as the CEO was to establish a board of directors—his own golf buddies, mostly—personally appointed by him.

Rhys didn’t mind the stock market fluctuations, but he despised dealing with the board, most of whom had been present during his childhood attempts at dressage, polo, and cricket. His father, for whatever reason, associated wealth and status with owning a stable of horses.

The board still saw Rhys as the scrawny, spotty kid with an experimental prosthetic and a pair of jodhpurs that made him look as if he were smuggling potatoes in his pants. The same kid who fell off a horse during the Prix St. Georges, splatting in the mud in front of a horrified crowd. Not unlike Scarlett O’Hara’s daughter at the end of _Gone With the Wind_ , only Rhys hadn’t been granted the sweet release of death.

Maybe that was why the board liked to camp out in Rhys’ inbox every time the stock dropped so much as a single decimal. A bunch of useless old men with nothing better to do than tell Rhys what a disappointment he was, something his own father didn’t even bother to do anymore.

The stock would’ve dropped a few points after last night’s attack. It seemed to dip any time Rhys so much as sneezed on camera. Rhys steeled himself and opened the report.

He glanced at it like it was a scary story he didn’t want to read. The number caught his eye. He paused, and then read it again, more carefully.

Atlas’ stocks had gone up.

It’d gone up by almost half a point since last night. And it was projected to rise even further. Rhys sat back, stunned.

How? _Why_? Had surviving the attempt on his life levied the fickle market in Atlas’ favour? But that didn’t make sense. A weakness in Rhys’ security had been very publicly exploited. His fingers trembled. If it hadn’t been for Tim, he would’ve—

Oh. Rhys glanced over to where Tim sat, still absorbed in his work. Oh. Oh _no_.

His mother’s words echoed in his ears, about Tim’s connection to Hyperion and the benefits that could be exploited through it, if they were smart enough.

Working on a terrible hunch and praying that he was wrong for the first time maybe ever, Rhys checked on Hyperion’s stocks.

They were up too. Goddammit it all. Rhys’ chewed on the inside of his cheek and cut another glance at Tim. He couldn’t believe it, but people were actually taking that stupid rumour seriously.

There were ways to leverage this to his favour. He hated it, but part of him was already considering the possibilities. Even the faintest hint of a possible merger between Hyperion and Atlas would strike terror into the hearts of Rhys’ enemies. As if they were all living in the feudal era and Tim were some foreign duke being married off to further Rhys’ political influence.

(Rhys had no idea if that’s what actually happened in the feudal era. He spent most of his history lessons asleep at his desk. But the idea of it intrigued him, and he decided to stow that scenario away for further, private contemplation.)

As if the universe could hear him, a new email arrived from one of the board members. A terse congratulations on Rhys’ recent happiness. Another popped in seconds after, from another member, offering similar sentiment with a none-too-subtle hint that they should all be hearing wedding bells soon.

Rhys felt as if he’d swallowed a bag of ice. He quickly deleted the email without sending a reply. More popped in as he watched, and soon people beyond the board threw in their two cents, all of them as eager as his mother to see him married off. Rhys dismissed the window and called up the AI coding he’d been meaning to comb through for the last four days. Spending the next hour hunting for line errors suddenly seemed far more appealing. Rhys did just that.

Todd came in shortly before lunch, his face flushed and his eyes bright. “Sir!” he said, as he came to a stop in front of Rhys’ desk. “Sir, the Maliwan email has been in your inbox for almost twenty minutes. Are you alright?”

Tim looked at the back of Todd’s head with an expression of amusement mingled with annoyance. The amusement became more prominent when he caught Rhys’ eye.

“The… Maliwan email?” Rhys recovered and drew himself up. “Todd, I was in the middle of working on the gamma code for the Heavensbound project. You know better than to just burst into my office unannounced like that.”

Todd’s enthusiasm flagged but it would not be so easily killed. “I apologise, sir, for my intrusion,” he said seriously. Tim rolled his eyes. “But, sir—! Maliwan’s agreed to your Schedule J addendum to the agreement contract!”

Rhys stiffened. “They what?”

“Wait.” Tim sat back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. “Maliwan actually bent on something? Without drawing it out for four months?”

The Maliwan Deal, which deserved its honorific capital letters, was a proposal that would outsource some of the smaller company’s research to Atlas’ manufacturing arm to develop a leap forward in digital storage technology. It’d been in progress for what felt like half of Rhys’ life but had been, in actuality, only the last six months. This was entirely the fault of Maliwan, or rather of their fleet of corporate scumbag lawyers. They debated and nitpicked every little detail of the contract, sent back every revision with a new litany of changes and complaints, and took an unreasonably long time to reply to any of Atlas’ comments. Rhys suspected Maliwan was still sore over their shareholders insisting on this deal in the first place.

Rhys opened the email and read over the polite yet restrained message from the Maliwan representative, which outlined their agreement to the terms Atlas proposed in the addendum. No arguing, no quibbling over the language, no snide implications that Atlas was trying to bully their way to an unfair deal to take advantage of Maliwan’s good will, no personal digs on Rhys’ appearance. Nothing.

Rhys sat back, stunned for the third time that day.

“Huh,” he said. “That’s… surprising.”

Todd bounced on his heels. “It’s great!”

Rhys flinched when he felt a hand on the back of his seat. Tim had gotten up and come around to Rhys’ side of the desk while Rhys had been too preoccupied to notice. He leaned over Rhys’ chair. Rhys caught a whiff of his after-shave.

“I’ll be damned,” Tim murmured.

Rhys watched Tim as discreetly as he could from the sides of his eyes, taking in his profile. The strong jawline, the sharp, aquiline nose, full lips with a slight overbite. The pink and red curl of a bruise around his eye and across the sharp line of his cheek. Rhys’ mouth watered, his heart thudded. He tore his gaze away.

Tim leaned closer, reaching to flick down the email chain to read the previous passive-aggressive messages. “God I thought they were going to argue with us ‘til you retired. They just rolled over. I wonder what brought on the change of heart,” he said.

Todd glared at him. “Maybe they’ve come to realise that resisting Atlas is a waste of their time and energy,” he said stiffly.

Rhys found it hard to look away from Tim. “Maybe,” he said.

* * *

Rhys worked for a few more hours after lunch, adjusting to this strange new world where Maliwan actually met Atlas half-way, where his board members sent him nice messages and asked to be invited to his future wedding.

It didn’t stop at Maliwan, either. DAHL’s representative sent a friendly message, reminding Atlas of their lucrative history together, and their hopes that they might extend that relationship into the future. Tediore sent a similar message, although theirs was not as friendly. Maliwan even sent a second email, extending an invitation to their CEO’s holiday gala.

Rhys’ ability to adapt and survive was what had gotten him this far in his career, further than his father’s nepotism could ever carry him. The surprise from the morning had worn off by lunch and he could accept their congratulations and invitations with good grace. He offered no promises, made no deals. Rhys could play along for a while.

Hyperion was no doubt getting similar emails from their competitors. Although Rhys hadn’t heard a peep from them. That was… a little odd.

The sky began to grow dark at the depressing hour of 3:45pm and by 4:30pm it was nearly black outside. Rhys kept one eye on Tim as the smart lights activated. Tim’s energy had begun to flag after lunch, and now he was slumped in his seat, one hand resting on his sternum. Tight lines framed his mouth and eyes.

He hadn’t said a word to Rhys, but Rhys had a feeling that whatever painkiller he’d taken that morning had worn off. A sane person would’ve taken another one, but, for whatever reason, Tim hadn’t. Rhys contemplated ordering him to dose himself, but that seemed callous. Like Rhys wanted Tim to just power through the pain. Except if Rhys asked, Tim probably would do just that. The knowledge sat with Rhys for an uncomfortable moment before he dismissed it.

He considered ordering Tim to go home for the day, but that would only result in an argument. He fiddled with his stylus and examined his third option. It wasn’t appealing, but he knew it would work. Rhys sighed.

Tim looked up when the screens around Rhys’ work station faded and the computer chimed its cheerful shutdown tune. Rhys stretched his arms above his head and yawned.

“I’m tired,” he announced, falling limp back into the embrace of his wingback chair. “I think I’m going to go home early.”

Rhys turned his gaze expectantly on Tim. Tim stared back, his expression blank. He glanced at the ceiling, at the corners, and then back at Rhys’ face. Rhys frowned as the seconds ticked on and Tim still hadn’t spoken.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Am I on camera?” Tim asked. Rhys scowled. “Or in a coma? Did I fall asleep at my desk?”

“Shut up,” Rhys said.

“You have never—“ Tim pushed his chair back and stood up. “—ever, in all the thousands of hours I spent withering away at this desk—“

Rhys snorted. “You weren’t _withering_ —“

“—have I seen you so much as taken a _break_ ,” Tim went on, obnoxiously loud. “And now you want to go home _early_?”

“I take plenty of breaks.” Rhys could feel his face grow warm. “I take one every day, with you.”

“Lunch doesn’t count as a break, Rhys,” Tim said as he crossed the office. “That’s eating to replenish your mortal form.” He circled the desk and stopped just short of Rhys’ legs.

“I took a sick day once,” Rhys said.

“I remember,” Tim said drily. He bent down and pressed the back of his hand against Rhys’ forehead. He hummed. “No fever.”

And then he slid both hands under Rhys’ chin, pressed his fingers gently into the soft skin of his neck and jaw. Rhys held himself very, very still.

“Not swollen either,” Tim murmured. Rhys huffed.

“Drop the act. I’m not sick,” he said. “I’m tired. I’ve had a long day. I’m still recovering from trauma, Tim.”

Tim’s expression softened. His amusement dropped away. “I know, boss,” he said. He stood up and held his hand out. “Let’s go home.”

Rhys nearly shivered. He didn’t even think before he took Tim’s hand, so desperate to go home. So eager at just hearing Tim say the word out loud.

The ride to Rhys’ apartment was quiet. Tim spent it with both hands clutching the wheel in a white-knuckled grip. Rhys leaned forward and touched his hand lightly to Tim’s arm. Tim actually flinched.

“It’s fine,” Rhys said quietly. “You see that black sedan behind us? That’s our security. Athena’s people. We’re fine.” He squeezed Tim’s bicep. “You can relax.”

Tim stared at his hand for a moment, long enough for a band of golden lamp light from outside to wash over his features. He breathed out as shadows fell in the space it left behind. He nodded, and tried to smile.

Rhys’ heart could not calm down. It pounded its urgent beat all the way home. Carly Rae, absurdly, sang on inside his head, just as she’d been doing since the attack. He heard her more clearly now, with nothing to distract him from Tim and his smile.

_I missed you so, so bad._

Atlas security swarmed Rhys’ building, but still Tim insisted on escorting Rhys up the elevator, right to the lobby of his penthouse suite. He took a quick look around the apartment while the lights came to life, and returned when his sweep failed to turn up a criminal or a would-be kidnapper.

“You know the police are handling it, right?” Rhys asked.

“I know,” Tim said.

“They already have them in custody,” Rhys said. “They’ll likely get the names of their co-conspirators. Plea bargains and all that.” Still, Tim did not look convinced or happy. Rhys had to keep himself from sighing. “It’ll be fine, Tim. Everything’s fine now.” He patted him lightly on the shoulder. “You saved the day.”

Tim didn’t quite smile, but the tension lines around his mouth melted away. “Right. Okay.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You’ll call me if anything happens though, right?”

“You’re number one on my speed dial.” Rhys wished he was kidding.

Tim chewed on his lip. He looked around the room, hand still rubbing the small hairs on his neck. “And, um. About Thanksgiving. Did your mom really mean it? Does she actually want me to attend?”

Rhys was no amateur. The slip-up he’d suffered that morning was an exception, but it was not the rule. This time, he was prepared.

“She almost definitely does,” Rhys said with a smile. “She’d be offended if you don’t make it out. She wants to repay you for your bravery,” he added, with just the right amount of teasing in his voice.

It worked. Tim seemed to relax. “I don’t need payment outside of what you’re already giving me.”

For a moment, Rhys thought Tim was referring to something other than his paystub. Which was ridiculous. Rhys cleared his throat. “Indulge her, please? Otherwise I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Are you sure it won’t be a problem if I go?” Tim asked.

“I’m sure it’ll be a problem if you don’t,” Rhys said. “She’s relentless, Tim. Don’t worry about the food or the space. We’ll have plenty of both. I’ll pick you up on Saturday. Sound good?”

Tim nodded, a little more at ease but still uncertain. It was strange to see Tim wear his emotions so obviously on his face. He was normally so careful. If Rhys were remotely interested in self-reflection, he might wonder why Tim was so unguarded around him.

He patted Tim’s shoulder again. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Tim.”

“Right.” Tim collected himself, professional once more. “Call me if you encounter anything strange. I mean it!”

Rhys promised he would, and then swore on his father’s grave that he would, and only then did Tim leave.

Alone at last, Rhys stood in his entry way, tipped his head back and examined his ceiling. The plan had taken form over the course of the day. He’d already taken the first step, and Tim had acted exactly as he was supposed to. Part of Rhys felt guilty, but it was easily ignored. He wasn’t going to hurt Tim. Everything would be fine.

* * *

The sky was a clear and pure blue above, and the sun cast buttery light across the passing cars, kissed the edge of every glass building. The kind of picturesque autumn day made for back to school commercials. Days where Rhys, as a young man, would wear a hand-knit sweater and a scarf, his cheeks attractively wind-blistered and the caramel highlights shining in his hair as he crossed the quad.

Even as an older man, Rhys wore the light well, although he’d traded in his cozy sweaters and floppy hair for a more polished look. Today he wore a pale blue button-down and a white cashmere cardigan, tan slacks and a cocoa brown leather belt to match his polished but worn loafers.

“You look like you fell out of an Abercrombie catalogue,” Tim said by way of greeting as he settled into the passenger seat of Rhys’ car.

“Hi, Tim,” Rhys said by way of greeting, because he’d been brought up properly.

“Maybe J. Crew. Calvin Klein,” Tim went on. He set two white boxes, and a paper bag with a bottle neck sticking out in the back seat. “One of those preppy stores. Nice khakis.”

“They’re slacks,” Rhys said icily as the car pulled away from Tim’s little flea trap building.

Tim was not wearing slacks, but he didn’t look as bad as Rhys had feared. He wore a delightfully form-fitting emerald green sweater, a pair of dark-wash jeans, and black oxfords. It was a good, clean look, and Rhys could admire the way it fit Tim—especially his arms and across his chest. But it looked as if it was missing something. A scarf, maybe. Something soft and cream coloured.

For a moment, Rhys felt an urge he hadn’t felt since grad school. An itching in his fingers for the feel of soft wooden needles. An urge to see row after row of colourful skeins of Icelandic sheep wool.

Rhys blinked and the moment popped like a bubble. He cleared his throat and tried to ignore the way his face warmed.

“Did you bring food?” Rhys glanced at the parcel in the back seat. “Are those pies?”

“You should put your hands on the wheel,” Tim said as he fiddled with the radio. “At least until we get out of the city.”

Rhys craned his neck. “Did you make them? What kind?”

Tim sighed and grabbed the hand Rhys had resting on his lap and placed it on the wheel. He reached over for Rhys’ other hand, but Rhys elbowed him away before he could sprawl over his lap.

“I’m doing it, I’m doing it.” Rhys scowled as he gripped the wheel with both hands.

Tim sat back, satisfied. “They’re pumpkin and apple. And no, they’re not homemade.” Tim scratched his ear. “I, uh. Hope that won’t be a problem. I’m not exactly a skilled baker, and I didn’t really have time to get better before today, and I didn’t want to inflict my attempts on your mother and her friends...” Tim’s voice weakened and trailed off. He dropped his hand and rubbed his thighs, let out a quiet breath. He wasn’t looking at Rhys, but out the windshield, watching as the buildings thinned out around them as the city relinquished its grip.

He was nervous, Rhys realised. He wondered if it would be a good idea to tell Tim that his mother was having the dinner catered by a company operated by a Michelin starred chef, and that his grocery store pies weren’t necessary and were probably going to end up being fed to the family dogs.

Tim drummed his fingers on his lap, wiggled his shoulders as he tried to get comfortable in Rhys’ newly issued company car. The lines bracketing his mouth were tight. Rhys wondered if it was his chest bothering him, or if he was still nervous about possible attacks. Or if it was something else. Or all of the above.

No, Rhys decided, turning his gaze to the front. He would not tell Tim that his gifts weren’t welcome. He had a feeling it wouldn’t make Tim feel better at all.

Rhys mentally reviewed the next steps. Tim’s comments and his pie had thrown him off his planned course. He chewed on his lower lip, tasting peppermint gloss, and didn’t speak. He kept quiet as the traffic around them thinned, and the lanes closed in.

The city fell away at last, as if too exhausted to keep pace with their escape, releasing them like an exhale onto the winding highway. Fields and farmland surrounded them for miles, tall hydro poles and tree lines offering the only piece of visual interest, the only blips in an otherwise rolling blanket of faded green, yellow and brown. The harvest had been reaped, and the crops were gone.

At least the changing leaves were nice under the blue sky. Rhys let his hands slip down the wheel, lulled by the rhythm of the painted lines on the highway, the dead and dying plants around him, the dip of ditches and the rise of tree lines that demarcated properties. Farmhouses in gentle decay sat at the end of long, winding gravel roads, like old ladies in faded white dresses.

“It’s a nice drive,” Tim said, giving word to the formless thoughts in Rhys’ head. “I don’t get out of the city often enough.” He had his hands in his lap, nails digging into the denim.

Rhys straightened, internally cursing himself for the slip. He wasn’t supposed to be at ease. He gripped the wheel tightly, made himself take a long breath, and brought his shoulders up. Tense, he reminded himself. As if he had something to be frightened of. It helped that he _was_ a little nervous.

The radio played on, a selection of indie pop music that Rhys didn’t recognize but could hum along to anyway. He did, because he knew it would make him look jittery. He tapped one finger along to the bass, missing beats on purpose. It was the only thing that could chase the endless repeat of the hottest summer jam of 2012 from his head.

When he spotted the sign for the first rest stop, he took another breath. “Um. Is everything okay with you and Angel and… Jack?” Rhys asked, right on time as the sign flashed passed.

“Fine,” Tim said.

“You’re not missing Thanksgiving with them, are you? Only, I’d hate to think…” Rhys paused, waited one beat and half of another. “I mean, I don’t want to come between your family get-togethers.”

“It’s a little late for that now,” Tim said, smiling with one side of his mouth. “Anyway, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Our dinner’s tomorrow.”

“Oh.” The trouble with the script was that Rhys wasn’t given the opportunity to write Tim’s lines. He’d planned for most of his replies, but he’d forgotten to plan out his emotional reaction. He felt a strange urge to ask if he might be invited to dinner. It sounded weak even in his head.

He should know better. Rhys rubbed at his furrowed brow. What the hell was wrong with him? A real spike of annoyance pierced his act.

“Well. I hope it’s nice,” Rhys said limply. Tim snorted. “I hope it’s tolerable,” Rhys corrected himself.

“It’ll be fine. Angel’s on a vegetarian kick, so Jack had to order an all-tofurky meal. Mushroom gravy, vegetable loaf, soy bac’n bits in the dressing…” Tim sighed. “Angel will be happy. And Nisha will be there to keep Jack happy.”

What about you, Rhys wondered. Who will keep you happy? He thought about Marco, a man he’d never met but always imagined being very tall and very handsome. He wondered if Tim was the sort to stay friends with his exes or if he cut contact and left them to pine. He wondered why anyone would want to leave Tim in the first place.

Rhys scrubbed at his face. It didn’t matter, he reminded himself. Eyes on the prize, Rhys.

“You’ll rub off all your make-up if you keep doing that,” Tim said. Rhys dropped his hand back to the wheel. “You seem nervous. Are you alright?”

Oh god, a perfect opening, and far, far ahead of schedule. Rhys’ gaze dropped to the dashboard GPS, which told him there was still an hour between them and their destination.

“Fine, fine,” Rhys said. He’d prepared for this possibility, at least. Keep the nerves up for a little while longer and change the subject. “Um. Good on Angel for giving vegetarianism a try. I came home from my sophomore year in university for the holidays a vegetarian and I don’t think my mother has ever forgiven me.”

Tim smiled. “She’s not the type to ‘forget’ and make a turkey, is she?” he asked.

“My mother hasn’t set foot in a kitchen since she became old enough to walk away from an oven,” Rhys said. “She has never so much as toasted bread. But to answer your question, no. Her passive-aggression took on other forms. Mostly by ‘forgetting’ to invite my then-girlfriend to join us every year. She blamed her for my vegetarianism,” he said. He glanced at Tim from the sides of his eyes, wondering if the implication behind his words might land. Tim’s expression didn’t change. “She never liked any one I was seeing,” Rhys said, pressing the point.

“That’s too bad,” Tim said. Rhys couldn’t tell if he missed the point or if he’d put on his poker face.

The road stretched out and even the farmland began to fall away. Forests crept up on them as the kilometers flew past, and soon they were surrounded on both sides by pines and the shaking boughs of changing leaves. The foliage was yellow. Apparently there’d been too much rain in October, and it left everything touched with gold. Rhys didn’t mind, although he missed the dramatic reds and oranges.

In some places the trees stood bare, grey limbs trembling in the breeze. Crows watched the passing cars without interest. Tim turned his head and watched them until the road bent and they were gone.

 Rhys kept up his act until he saw a familiar red shape looming on the horizon. A giant wooden apple, an old landmark with a restaurant and pie shop inside. And Rhys’ sign that they were fifteen minutes away from his mother’s country estate. Rhys straightened in his seat. Show time.

“Look,” he said, his voice loud and abrupt. Perfect. “Um. There’s… I don’t know exactly how to tell you this. But there’s something I should tell you.” He hesitated, gnawed on his cheek, just as he’d mentally rehearsed. “That I should’ve told you sooner. Um. My mother… didn’t invite you because you’d saved my life.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Rhys could see he had Tim’s attention. “She didn’t?” He sounded wary.

“Well. That was part of the reason,” Rhys amended. “But it wasn’t the whole reason. Um.” Filler words he never used unless he was really flustered. Face growing warm on command. _Perfect_. “She… thinks that you and I are.” Stop, pause. Draw up, square shoulders and take a breath.

Rhys could feel Tim’s gaze on the side of his face.

“She thinks we’re dating,” Rhys said. He’d practiced that line more than any others, and he knew how to deliver it best. A little breathless, a little rushed, like he had to force the words out before he lost his nerve.

Tim didn’t say anything, which wasn’t unusual. Tim always fell silent when he wasn’t certain how to proceed. It was something Rhys liked about him.

Rhys let the silence draw itself out for exactly thirty-two seconds before he spoke again. “I didn’t correct her.” Voice calmer, words more measured. The hard part was over with, after all. “I… was too surprised at the time. And everything had just happened. You know, with—“ He gestured sharply at Tim’s chest. “I was going to set the record straight later, when I’d recovered, but…” The sign for Breakbridge passed, and the GPS told him he had thirteen minutes before they reached their destination.

“But you didn’t,” Tim said, unreadable.

Rhys didn’t have to feign nerves anymore. He glanced at Tim, wincing. “I really meant to. But… do you remember how I was complaining to Todd about all those people cluttering up my inbox with personal offers? And the blind dates—I only started those to make my mother happy. She’s been on my case to get married for months now.” In truth, probably his entire adult life since he and Sasha split. “But now that she thinks I’m settling down, she’s eased off.”

The lines of Tim’s face were tight with something other than nerves now. He stared out at the road, his jaw flexing.

“I see,” he said.

Without meaning to, Rhys winced again. “The peace and quiet’s been nice,” he said weakly. “I was thinking… You know. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if she just… went on believing I’m settling down. At least until the holidays are over.”

“You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend,” Tim said.

Rhys hunched over the wheel, trying to bend his height so that he could appear smaller, more difficult to hit. “Please, Tim,” he said miserably as the car slowed and pulled off the numbered exit. “It would be really helpful. I would owe you a favour. A big one. Please, just play along for a while. At least for the dinner. Please?”

Tim didn’t reply. He didn’t even look at Rhys. Rhys snuck a glance, tried to gage Tim’s reaction, but his expression was carved from hard lines, set in stone. This was the inverse of the other night, where Tim let his own nerves show on his face. This was a man who could bluff on a pair of threes and win.

The wheel creaked under Rhys’ mechanical hand. He returned his attention to the road ahead and watched the familiar landmarks tick by. The copse of oak trees so thick they nearly blocked out the sun, the glittering curl of the lakeshore on his right. The tacky house the Llewellens built, with its bare yard and its three car garage. Minutes spent in silence interrupted only by the muted rumble of the radio, and Rhys made himself breathe through it all. He’d played his hand. All he could do now was wait.

Tim still hadn’t spoken by the time the car pulled to a stop in front of a set of elaborate wrought iron gates. The estate wasn’t visible from here, blocked from lookeeloos by the tall pines that wreathed the land. Rhys waited patiently while the security system confirmed his new car’s signature. It did, and the gates slid open on their oiled track.

The car followed up the winding path, through a small forest, until the trees parted and they were once more in the open sunlight, pulling around the courtyard to the front entrance of a two-storey mansion, where a man wearing a suit and white gloves waited for them.

Tim leaned forward, staring up at the brick building with his mouth hanging open. “Holy shit,” he breathed.

“The Gryffiths-Whyte ancestral country estate,” Rhys said, putting aside his role for the moment. “Well. Not the original. That one was burned down in Scotland about a hundred and fifty years ago. This was built to be almost its exact double by my great-great-grandfather. Although fortunately for everyone, he made some changes to the interior. The rose garden over there was for his second wife. The conservatory he built for his third daughter, my great-aunt, the violin prodigy.” Rhys realised he was babbling, which he hadn’t planned to do. He stopped himself as the valet approached their car, and looked over at Tim.

“Tim, please,” he said again. “Just for tonight. Please.”

Tim glanced at him, expression maddeningly unreadable, and popped the door open before the valet could. He stepped outside. With some reluctance, Rhys followed.

Mercedes appeared at the top of the steps, framed in the open double-doors, with a glass of wine already in hand. She wore a pencil skirt and a flowing, asymmetrically cut white blouse with a collar like an axe blade laying against her chest. She waved at them, and Rhys could see her red-lipped smile from where he stood.

He raised his hand in return, tried to force a smile. He could feel the prickle of sweat under his arms and collar.

“Rhys, my dear son, how are you?” Mercedes approached them with her arms outstretched. Rhys gently leaned into her embrace and placed a dry kiss on her cheek. “How was traffic? You made excellent time from the city,” she said.

For once, Rhys was grateful she’d answered her own question. He was running without a script now. He could only hope it wasn’t obvious.

His mother turned her smile onto Tim, who approached them both from behind. “And there’s the handsome bodyguard. You’re looking so much better. How are your ribs?”

“Fine,” Tim said, slipping his arm around Rhys’ waist. Rhys stiffened. “Thank you for asking. You have such a lovely home, Mrs. Gryffiths-Whyte.” He smiled.

It had a lot of teeth, that smile. Rhys could see their gleam in his peripheral vision. Tim’s arm was heavy. Rhys could feel his fingers press into his hip. He could feel Tim against his side, and Rhys suddenly felt warm. Too warm for his cardigan. He tried to smile.

“I’m so pleased you could come,” Mercedes said, her dark eyes glittering. “And please, call me Mercedes. I am looking forward to getting to know you better, Timothy Lawrence.”

* * *

Rhys hadn’t always been a coward.

He fell in love as a young man and it made him fearless. It made him reckless. It made him sing along to the radio, buy flowers before every date, and brought tears to his eyes when he attended weddings. Now and then, it even put a spring in his step.

He and Sasha met when they were both very young, and that was where their story started. She was the daughter of one of his nannies, and she lived in the servants’ quarters with her sister. They were both his friends, sort of. They let him tag along when they went running in the valleys behind the house.

Rhys liked Sasha because they were the same age and she was a pretty girl. He picked flowers from his great-great-great-step-grandmother’s rose garden and gave them to her, even though it got him in trouble. He listened to songs on the radio and if he heard the word ‘love’ he thought about her. He wrote her a poem, even.

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Sasha I love

you

She kissed him when he recited it. His first. They were both seven.

They grew up, and he went away to boarding school. They didn’t break up, exactly, so much as they forgot they were even dating.

Rhys learned more about romance, about bodies, about real kisses. The cherry cola flavour of lip gloss, sticky sweet and bright red. He learned about the curve of a girl’s hip, and the way her eyelashes would stick when she cried. He learned about getting long hair in his mouth, and how to unlatch a bra without looking (with a lot of practice).

He learned other things, too. He learned about boys’ elbows and the shape of their calves. He learned about the bob of an adam’s apple against his mouth, and the way a young man’s skin smelled when he pushed his face against it. It was easier to get hands on a young man’s skin, on his chest at Rhys’ all boys school.

It was a fumbling education, but Rhys took to it eagerly. When he came home at seventeen, he felt very experienced.

When he laid eyes on Sasha again, he felt like the world’s biggest idiot.

No one falls in love quite like teenagers. As a species, we couldn’t survive it. Rhys felt like his head had caught fire.

Rhys took her out, paid for her meals. She accepted the steak dinners and the boardwalk ice creams with a half-smirk and what he believed at the time to be an easy confidence. Like boys had been buying her porterhouse and stracciatella gelato for decades. Maybe they had. Rhys felt dizzy all the time.

He’d never wanted anything as badly as he wanted her. He bought her jewellery. He took her out and flashed his platinum card all over town. She only wore what he bought her when she was with him.

After two weeks of this, he asked Sasha to be his girlfriend. He asked her over dinner in a nice restaurant, where candlelight gleamed off of the golden bracelet he’d bought her the week before. She said yes, and she smiled at him.

She looked happy. He would always remember that.

They held hands and kissed. He took her out to a look-out point like they did in old songs and they steamed the windows of his car. Wedged in the backseat, she flipped her skirt over her head, and they both laughed until he put his hand over her stomach and they both stopped.

He planned their wedding. He planned their future. He imagined their house—smaller than his mother’s, but big enough for children and a live-in nanny. They would live in the city. They would have a modest lawn, because there wasn’t room for much else in the city. They would have a town house and a country home. They would hang mobiles in the nursery. Sasha would be beautiful and grouchy, stomach a perfect round ball sticking out from her body, just like the pretty actresses in the magazines and on TV. He would gain weight with her, just to make her feel better.

At night, their bare legs wound together, and he could feel the soft hairs on her calves. He loved that she never shaved. She loved that he loved it. Nobody had ever had it so good.

They lived together through their undergrad, in the off-campus apartment Rhys’ parents paid for. Rhys and Sasha carved out their lives, their reality, in their shared space. It wasn’t always safe, but it was theirs and only theirs. They graduated in the same year.

And then Rhys had to go away for his masters. Sasha had been accepted to a prestigious program in a different part of the country.

She wanted to start setting down roots for their future. He wanted to get his education over with. They had to separate, but it wouldn’t be forever. He gave her a promise ring before he went away. Sasha accepted it with the same half-smirk and it made Rhys uneasy, because he knew what it meant now. She didn’t put it on right away, not until Rhys asked her to.

Understand this about Rhys: he’d been raised to be an adult. You could say the same was true for anyone, but for Rhys it was truer than most. He’d been given the blueprints of his future—all the steps laid out for him, all the decisions already made for him. The education, the starter job, the training, the shadowing, his father’s retirement, and the throne.

Somewhere in the margins, he’d been given the instructions to wed and produce more Gryffiths-Whytes, but it was an annotation, a subscript. It caught Rhys’ eye because there were no instructions for him to follow. He could pick whoever he wanted. He picked the person he fell in love with. He had no reason to assume they wouldn’t pick him, too.

The story ended the way many stories about passionate young lovers separated by circumstances end in real life.

Sasha went out more and more. There were pictures of her in sticky booths in dark clubs, her face lit up by the camera phone’s flash function posted all over her social media. Everyone looked drunk and he hated that he still found her beautiful. New friends by the day, all of them guys.

Rhys was a young man, used to getting whatever he wanted. His anxiety was getting worse, his workload was heavier than he expected, and he was working harder than he’d ever worked in his life. He had few friends. He’d never felt so lonely.

She accused him of thinking he could control her. He made his own accusations about all her new ‘friends’, because he wanted to get his nails in her. He wanted to push at her soft spots, wanted to know that she still had them.

Every fight seemed to wind down the same way. With them both choking back tears, with Rhys holding his stomach, as if in pain. Rhys told her again and again that he just missed her. He missed her.

 _“I can’t do this anymore, Rhys,”_ she said through tears. _“I can’t. I can’t.”_

It ended over the phone. It ended at 3am, with Rhys alone in the living room of his apartment. It ended with her sobbing while he tried to get something else out of her. While he begged her to reconsider.

Rhys wanted her to be his ever after, but he was young and inexperienced and an idiot. People weren’t stories. People weren’t _endings_.

The rest of the semester was a mess. He skipped classes, tests. He stopped leaving his room. He stopped showering. He stayed in his bed and listened to music for the heart-broken, and felt like every song was about him. He felt like a failure. His future was laid out but there was no room for him in it.

It took a lot to set him back right. It took a stern warning from his academic adviser, and a failing grade in Control Analysis Methods with Applications to Robotics. It took a phone call from his father—the first one Rhys had ever gotten—who gave him a far sterner, far more serious warning. It took his classmate and project partner, Vaughn, taking him out to the only semi-decent bar on campus, matching him shot for shot until they were both on the floor.

More than all of that, it took therapy.

No more love, he decided during that time, once the fog of depression cleared from his head. No more ever afters. Love was fickle. Love was a brain chemical. Love wasn’t enough to hold two people together. It wasn’t a foundation to build anything on.

He dated other people, when he had the time. Boys and girls, and later men and women. Anyone who caught his interest. Who seemed nice. He managed one more long-term relationship, to someone he was quite fond of, but who ultimately left him for someone else. Rhys was sad, but it didn’t destroy him. It was a relief. It felt like progress.

Rhys wrote himself a new ending. He would marry someone he liked, he decided. Someone with a good handshake. Someone who would let Rhys pick the restaurant, or the music station. Someone who dressed well, someone agreeable and pleasant. Someone who could work in silence beside Rhys. Someone who could leave Rhys alone.

Someone he liked, but not someone he loved. Whatever he built would be stronger for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Canamerica, Thanksgiving is on a Sunday in November. Don't worry about it.
> 
> Next time: Rhys and Tim begin to Fake Date. 
> 
> See you Thursday.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim plays pretend for Thanksgiving. Rhys has some regrets (but not many).

The heavy doors swung shut behind them, shutting out the crisp, slanted light of a fine, fall afternoon and leaving them stranded in the entryway.

Tim expected them to creak and slam—as all carved, oak doors should—but they made barely a sound, which was somehow more unnerving. He took in the opulence of the Giffiths-Whyte estate.

Tim had expected tapestries. He’d expected massive oil paintings in gilt frames, and oriental rugs woven hundreds of years before. He expected large vases and lush, green plants. Heavy drapes and polished wooden floors. Halls that twisted in on themselves, stairways that rose ponderously into the shadows. He’d expected, in all honesty, Shirley Jackon’s Hill House. A place meant to swallow the naïve, financially poor protagonist as easy as an heiress closing her lips around a bonbon.

Mercedes lead them through the dim hall, away from the tall windows and deeper down the throat of the house. There were, indeed, oil paintings on the walls, and large vases on the ground. There was an ornamental rug with an intricate pattern Tim couldn’t make out in the shadows. There were unlit wall sconces. It smelled like old paper and vanilla candles.

“I’ll have to take you on a tour later. The house is really magnificent. We’ve had it in the family for as long as we’ve lived in this country,” Mercedes chatted breezily as she sashayed ahead. Tim had never before used ‘sashay’ in his life, but he found it in his head as he watched Mercedes move in her knee-length pencil skirt. There was a discreet slot cut into the back, allowing her to _swish swish_ her way through the hall and into a larger room.

Possibly a conservatory, possibly a drawing room, possibly a study. Hell, possibly an above ground dungeon for all Tim knew. Rich people used their houses the way dragons would use caves; as a convenient vessel for their hoards.

There was a table laden with plates of food, and another table with ice buckets and bottles of white wine stuck into their mouths. Tim thought of the $30 bottle of wine he’d bought from the Wine Rack the night before and felt suddenly grateful that he’d forgotten to take it out of the back seat.

Tim felt a gravitational tug towards both of the tables—especially to the ice buckets—but Mercedes had a pull of her own that was far more powerful. She dragged him away without laying a hand on him, towards the loose knots of other guests.

“This is Tricia Belvin and her partner Alejandro. Rhys, sweetheart, of course you remember Gabby and Mikel Fontaine? Old family friends, we met them in California in the 70s, you’ll love them, Timothy. This is Drago and Tonya Hasmeet, they live across town in that lovely old English farmhouse manor you must’ve driven past. Tonya works in finance and Drago is a painter. This is Connolly and Pipsy Taunton, both are retired now but their family owns a few resorts in the Bahamas. Rhys of course you remember their son, Henson?”

“Henson Taunton?” Tim muttered under his breath, his nose wrinkling. Rhys elbowed him.

Mercedes whirled them through the crowd like a dancer, each spoken word like links in a chain, leashing Tim to the sound of her voice and leading him through the crowds of her guests.

They were mostly older, mostly white, mostly dressed in the same tones of pastels and khakis. Aberzombies, Jack had once called these sorts of people, although Tim thought that was a little juvenile. They were all friendly enough. They all smiled at Tim with their teeth showing and took his hand in firm and steady grip. They could all of them, each and every one, buy and sell Tim’s life five times over as easily as falling asleep. Tim smiled back and did his best not to feel like the rabbit who’d fallen into the hunter’s sights.

He did what he always did to survive when he was outclassed and outmatched and fell back behind a wall of a bland smile, a calm voice, and a confident stare. It was enough to pass the first few rounds of introductions, and it kept him safe as the older couples converged on them. Tim gathered from their exclamations that it’d been a while since anyone had spoken to or seen Rhys.

They were eventually left with a group of women who, apparently, had known Rhys since he toddled in silk diapers and teethed on emerald cut diamonds.

“It’s been so long, Rhys,” a woman who looked a bit like a high school art teacher said.

“You never come out anymore,” her friend, whose name might’ve been Joanne, said with a young woman’s pout.

“I was just telling your mother how handsome you looked in that science magazine my daughter showed me,” a petite, dark haired woman said. (Liza?)

“So handsome,” Joanne agreed.

Rhys nodded and murmured through it all, a pained smile stretching across his face.

“And of course,” the possible art teacher said, “this young man here is always at your side.”

They turned to Tim with their smiles, and their glasses of white wine gleaming like amber in the fading afternoon light. Tim met them with his easy, inoffensive smile like a fencer easing into position.

“Where did you grow up, my dear?”

“Which school did you attend?”

“How long have you been in this line of work?”

“Why did you decide to work for Atlas? Isn’t that company directly competing with your brother’s?”

“What an interesting choice of career. Do you enjoy it?”

“I see you and Rhys all the time in the papers. Do you find it challenging to work with someone you’re dating?”

Tim looked down at them from the high slopes of his defenses. He leaned on one foot, held a glass of wine in his free hand and fired off pleasant response after pleasant response.

“I grew up in a small town, I attended a community college, I’ve been in this line of work for close to fifteen years, I liked Atlas’ coffee machines, I enjoy it well enough.”

“And no,” Tim said, pausing long enough to take a breath. “I don’t find it challenging. I find it invigorating.” He pulled Rhys close, knocking their bony hips together, and gave him a smile so sweet it should’ve required an insulin shot.

Tim didn’t miss the way Rhys went still for a brief moment under his touch. For the space between breaths, it was the only thing Tim could think about.

He kept his arm around Rhys’ waist, his hand splayed across Rhys’ hip. It wasn’t necessary, but Tim was determined to spread his discomfort around. If he had to go through hell, he fully intended to drag Rhys down through the depths with him.

“Really?” Liza’s dark eyes widened. “I’m impressed.”

“If I had to work with my husband every day, you would probably start seeing my photo in the papers too, but it’d be a mug shot,” the art teacher said with a grin.

“And of course, Rhys can be such a handful,” Joanne said.

Tim was pleased to see Rhys’ smile grow a brittle edge.

 “It might be difficult for some to spend so much time together,” Tim allowed generously. “But when it comes to Rhys…” He trailed off with a wistful sigh. He looked over at Rhys and gave him another sugar-shock smile. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me, but it hardly seems like work at all. Does it, honey bear?”

Tim could hear Rhys breathe out through his clenched teeth. “Of course,” he said. “It’s always… I mean, it’s barely hard. Difficult. It’s barely difficult.” He joined in when the others laughed.

Amateur hour. Kind of a surprise performance from Rhys, who was normally Tim’s equal or better at bullshitting his way through uncomfortable social situations. Tim raised his eyebrow when he caught Rhys’ eye. Rhys made a face and looked away.

Round two was more of the same. Prying questions into Tim’s history, into his intentions. One of the women asked Tim about his RRSP and his investment portfolio, both of which were embarrassments, but Tim smiled his way through it. It was a bit like sitting through the hiring interview in Atlas all over again, or like being eaten alive by guppies one nibble at a time. They probed him for any softness they could dig their little teeth into.

They were welcome to try. Tim had none for the likes of them.

Round three became more personal.

“Have you had a chance to eat at the Condor?” the blonde woman he now knew to be Gabby asked, looking between them. “It’s such an interesting and hip place. I tried to drag my husband there, but he said the menu was too avant-garde for him. He thinks it’s more for the young, jet-setting crowd.”

Tim laughed, and they all joined in. “Did you hear that, sugar beet? We’re young jet-setters.” Rhys gave him a smile with teeth. Tim returned it with one of his own. “I would take Rhys out everywhere around the city, if I could. I love showing him off. He looks so darn good in his cute little suits. Especially that navy number. I told you about that, right, sweetums?” He tweaked Rhys’ nose. “It’s my favourite.” He turned to the others. “I fall more in love with him every time I see him in it.”

Behind his smile, Rhys gave him a look that could set his shirt on fire.

Round three was the last one and they relinquished their grip. Tim gratefully steered towards the food, Rhys snipping at his heels.

“What’s with the pet names?” Rhys asked as Tim grabbed gilt silver tongs and descended on the shrimp cocktail.

Tim turned to him, Patrick Bateman smile still in place. “You ask me to be your boyfriend for the night in front of these harpies, and now you have the nerve to complain about my performance?”

“You’re pouring it on a little thick, don’t you think?” Rhys asked as Tim popped a shrimp into his mouth.

Tim gave him a look. “You get what you get, and you shut your mouth. Be grateful I don’t just turn around and walk the hell out of here. Okay, my treasure?”

Rhys turned pink and opened his mouth to continue, but anger made Tim’s reflexes even quicker. He snatched a carrot stick from the pile of crudités and shoved it between Rhys’ teeth. From the outsider’s perspective, it must’ve looked like a playful gesture. Only Tim saw the outrage as Rhys clamped his teeth down.

Knowing that Rhys would sooner sell his Atlas stocks than talk with his mouth full, Tim used the time to eat more shrimp.

“You’re being immature,” Rhys hissed.

“You’re being a pain in the ass,” Tim said as he piled smoked salmon onto a rye cracker. “So I guess we’re even. And smile, dearest. We’re supposed to be madly in love, remember?”

Rhys’ flushed cheeks turned white in an instant. He drew a quiet breath and his smile returned, fixed properly in place. Just in time for another group to approach them.

These people looked to be the younger, jet-setting crew Gabby had talked about. They were all around Rhys’ age, and all apparently related to the mothers who’d come for Tim’s throat minutes earlier. Their smiles weren’t as frictionless as their elders, but they made up for it with the lazy set of their spines and shoulders.

“Rhys, you rascal!” They were lead by a large, blond man with a dimpled chin, large brows, and too much product in his hair. He held his arms open like he intended to pull Rhys into an embrace. Rhys retreated to Tim’s side, grabbed Tim’s free hand and held it in front of him like a talisman meant to ward off evil.

“Henson, it’s good to see you,” Rhys said. If Tim didn’t know him any better, he might actually believe him.

“It’s been a dog’s age since we last saw you,” Henson said, dropping his arms. Tim caught a whiff of his cologne—something rich and heavy, burnt wood and pepper. “Last I heard you were looking for a proper partner. And now I hear you’ve taken on some scrappy young man?” His blue gaze flicked over to Tim, brief as a mosquito alighting on his face.

Tim raised an eyebrow. He was almost certainly older than this slab of Lacoste-dressed meat.

There were people behind Henson, but they fell easily, almost eagerly into the background. They were there to be the studio audience, ready to ooh and aah and laugh on cue.

“That’s right,” Rhys said, wrapping his other hand around Tim’s. “What can I say? He was a hard man to resist.”

Tim held himself from wincing. Rhys’ cybernetic hand was cool to the touch, but it was smoother than he expected. He ran his finger along a metal seam as Henson continued.

“I suppose he must’ve been. Imagine our surprise. We were just talking about how only a few short days ago you were seen with that Mona at Planta,” Henson said, tilting his large head towards Tim. “And now we’re to believe you’re settled with this one?”

“It’s Tim, by the way,” Tim said easily. Henson’s gaze mosquito-flicked to Tim’s face again.

“We had to maintain a certain amount of discretion,” Rhys said. He looked over at Tim and gave his hand a squeeze. “We wanted to keep things quiet for a while. Enjoy our privacy while we had it. Right, Tim?”

The cybernetic had grown contact-warm in Tim’s hands. Tim felt the line of the second joint on Rhys’ ring finger. He traced it with his thumb and smiled.

Henson, to his credit, was a real pro. “That must’ve been difficult,” he said, turning to Tim with honey-sweet sympathy in his voice. “To watch Rhys kiss all those lovely women. To lose him for a night to each date. See their faces all over the tabloid sites the next morning.”

Henson was good, but Tim was better. He let himself turn wistful again, as convincing as a soap opera actor. His smile grew small and sad and soft, as something buried deep within him, something that remembered just how it’d felt to stand outside the restaurants during those lunch dates, turned hard and cold.

“It wasn’t easy,” Tim said, gently pulling his and Rhys’ entwined hands towards his chest. “But I understood the reasons for it. The only thing that matters to me is Rhys’ happiness. What he wants is what I want.” He dialed the brightness of his smile up by a few watts. “Besides, I trust him. I know I make him happy. Isn’t that right, my honeyed bunches of oats?”

Rhys’ lips twitched and something sparked in his human eye—a killing gleam that made Tim’s lips twitch. He brought Rhys’ cybernetic fingers to his lips and brushed a delicate, dry kiss across the back of his shiny knuckles. Rhys’ eyes widened just a fraction, his expression slackening at the edges.

Tim stared back, his mouth hidden. Rhys turned away.

“That’s right,” Rhys said, recovering with a laugh. “It’s pretty inconvenient to have everything out in the open, but it’s something of a relief to not have to hide behind those blind dates anymore. Those women were nice but they weren’t—“ He faltered, just briefly. “—what I wanted. Not really.” His fingers spasmed in Tim’s grip.

Tim stared at the bit of Rhys’ face he could see from where he stood. Tim itched to run his fingers along the soft shell of his ear, where the skin was nearly translucent. To press a kiss where his hair fell against his neck, just above his stiff collar. Tim listed forward before he knew what he was doing.

“I’m happy for you,” Henson said, smiling hard enough to crinkle the lines around eyes.

* * *

Tim managed to put away a pound of shrimp and a half-pound of smoked salmon before dinner was called, but he kept himself to only one glass of wine. It might’ve been his first instinct to dive headlong into the bottle, but he knew better than to indulge that urge. Henson and his cronies had been bush league, but the others were no joke. Tim had a feeling the worst was yet to come. He would need all his wits about him for the big boss.

Mercedes left them alone while they mingled, but Tim wouldn’t let himself be lulled. He felt the prickle of observation on the back of his neck more than once.

It wasn’t long before they were shepherded into the dining room where a seating chart waited for them. A line of servers stood against one side and in each of their faces Tim found a mirror of his own pleasantly vacant expression. Like them, his time was being bought and sold.

Mercedes had them—him and Rhys—seated at her right-hand side, with Tim directly beside her. She was placed at the head of the long table, where she gazed upon her guests with a smile of benevolence. The servers moved forward from their stations as soon as they had all taken their places, pouring the wine and the iced water, and taking any special requests. Serving plates came in steaming from the kitchen, floating on white-gloved hands. They were to eat family style, of course.

Tim dug through his dim memories of etiquette and kept his hands folded in his lap as the others began serving themselves. Mercedes sipped at her wine as they piled their plates, watching him without looking at him directly.

The tall candles set a soft, flickering light, the reflection of their flames caught in the gleam of the silverware, in the golden gilt on the edge of their place settings. There were three plates in front of Tim, two glasses, two knives, two spoons and three forks. Tim didn’t think he even had three forks in his apartment.

“You work from the outside in,” Rhys said in an undertone as he helped himself to his private platter of tofurky. Tim shot him a look, his face warming.

“I know that,” he said, just as quiet.

Rhys gave him an amused look that Tim wanted very badly to smear off his face with his palm. “Well,” Rhys said, straightening in his seat. “Just let me know if you need any assistance.”

Tim had a few things to say to that, and if they were alone in a restaurant, he’d have no trouble airing his grievances. But the weight of Mercedes’ gaze made held his tongue down.

“What a gentleman,” Mercedes said as Tim finally reached for the serving plate of roast turkey and vegetables. “Waiting until your elders had finished before taking your share. You don’t often see such good manners in young people these days.”

So it begins, Tim thought. He inclined his head in thanks.

Now, how to work someone like Mercedes over? He searched his instinct for clues. It told him that Mercedes was sharp, a predator with teeth and claws that could do him real harm. If he tried to play softball with his replies, she would go for his throat. Baseless flattery would have her take him for a fool.

“My grandmother was a stickler for rules of all kinds,” Tim said. It was the closest he’d come to revealing something genuinely personal all night. “She taught us how to behave.” Beat their P’s and Q’s into them, more like.

Mercedes set her glass down. Her smile faded. “Of course. I have heard that,” she said, withdrawing and solemn. Tim felt like he’d gained some ground.

“I have to thank you again for your invitation,” he said, smoothly and generously changing subjects. He reached for the bowl of brussel sprouts and offered her a serving. “It was very kind of you. You have such a lovely home.” Safe, polite patter. The sound like the tapping of a sword against his opponent’s blade.

Rhys’ gaze was fixed on his plate, but Tim wasn’t fooled. He could practically feel the strain of Rhys’ full attention. He wore his serene expression like a mask, but nervous energy radiated like energy from a star.

“I would love to take you on a tour later,” Mercedes said as Tim ladled sprouts onto her plate. “I believe I’ve already mentioned how old and dear this house is to the Griffiths.”

“The Griffiths?” Tim asked with polite interest. “Not the Griffiths-Whytes?”

She smiled indulgently. “The ‘Whyte’ came from my family. Do you not know that story? Has my darling son not talked about his heritage?”

“It hasn’t come up,” Tim said.

“People aren’t interested in that kind of talk, mother,” Rhys said as Tim offered her the turkey platter.

“A mixture of dark and light meat, Timothy, if you don’t mind. I think family is very important,” Mercedes said. “The Whytes are Welsh, although my mother, Rhys’ grandmother, was Italian. Our family owns two rather lovely vineyards in Naples. Did you know this?” Her voice remained pleasant as Tim served her, but he wasn’t fooled. There was something in her words, buried like a razor in an apple.

“I didn’t,” Tim said as he reached for the mashed potatoes.

“No?” She tilted her head as Tim spooned the potatoes onto her plate. “The Whytes made their fortune in silver mines, out in California. My father was a real estate mogul. He owned property in San Jose. We sold it all at an incredible profit. Most of our assets are in land. We have a chain of beach resorts all down the coast of California.”

“Sounds nice,” Tim said.

Mercedes watched him. “You didn’t know about them, either? Does my son tell you anything?”

Tim’s smile became a little more honest. “He tells me plenty of things. How he likes his tea, the colour of the wash cloth he uses for his face, the make and label of his best suit—“

“Which is?” she challenged, a quick feint.

Tim shrugged, still smiling. “Hell if I know. He tells me, that doesn’t mean I remember.”

“It’s the Tom Ford, dearest,” Rhys said, barbing the endearment.

“Oh. Matches your cologne, I guess,” Tim said. Rhys sat back, looking a bit startled.

Mercedes laughed, delighted. “That sounds like my son.” She folded her hands under her chin and leaned forward, ignoring her plate. “He can be focused, very single minded. Driven. It’s what gotten him so far in his business. The Griffiths-Whytes have assets everywhere, but Atlas is the crown jewel. We were always going to entrust it to Rhys. He needed to be strong, in order to keep Atlas strong,” she said. Rhys looked up, startled. “But I believe it may have come at a cost. To have him still single at his age… I did not expect it to be the case. He can be, I am told, a very intense young man. Do you find that to be the case at all?”

A leading question, and maybe a little too obvious. Tim considered his next move while he chewed a mouthful of sweet potatoes to buy himself time.

“I suppose I do,” Tim said. The semi-honest approach had served him well this far. “But it’s something I find admirable. I don’t think I could work for anyone who wasn’t as intense or as dedicated as Rhys. I don’t think I have it in me.”

Tim could feel Rhys’ stare on the side of his face. He ignored it.

“And as a romantic partner, it isn’t too much?” Mercedes asked. “Because you are looking at the rest of his life. You understand that his position isn’t just a job, don’t you?”

“Mother, this isn’t really appropriate—“ Rhys tried, but Mercedes held her hand up without breaking eye contact with Tim.

Tim considered her. Previously, he’d assumed that Rhys took after his father. He had no basis for this assumption, other than a lifetime of ingrained sexism, but he now knew he was wrong.

Rhys was Mercedes’ son, no doubt about that. They both shared the same super model height, the same fine-boned good looks, high cheeks, proud chins, and pert noses. Rhys’ face possessed a soft, roundness that Mercedes’ lacked. Age—and, Tim suspected, a surgeon’s scalpel—had left Mercedes with sharper, more defined features. Tim recognized the way she held herself, stiff-backed, straight-shouldered, chin up and proud. Like a general on horseback, ready for battle. He’d seen Rhys pull off that same pose more times than he could count.

“I do understand it,” Tim said at last. “Probably better than most.”

“Others have always struggled with it,” Mercedes said. “My poor son has left more than one person in tears because how important his career is. His partners were too insecure to weather it.”

Tim chewed on his green beans carefully before he replied. “Sure, I get that. But I fell for your son at work. I’ve seen him work too late and come in too early the next morning. And I’ve given him hell for it every time,” he added, giving Rhys a side-long look. Rhys only stared back, unguarded. “I know who your son is. It’s not going to drive me away.”

Mercedes watched him through narrowed eyes. She tapped her finger against the rim of her glass, producing a clear, sweet sound. A few of the dinner guests looked over, but quickly away when they saw the victim of her regard.

This, too, Tim could recognize. It was the same look Rhys gave him at that final interview, before he offered him the job. Tim did what he did back then, and waited.

It worked. She smiled at him, sharp as split bone. “Look at that,” she said softly. “You do love him.”

Rhys coughed on a mouthful of potatoes and mushroom gravy, his chest heaving. Tim reacted quickly, patting him hard on the back.

“You okay?” Tim asked as heads turned. Rhys nodded, still coughing, eyes streaming.

“I’m… I’m fine,” he replied, voice strained. “Just… Wrong way.” He flapped his hand at his chest.

“Drink some water,” Tim said, rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades. Rhys reached for his glass—crystal, carved and with serious weight—and sipped carefully. People lost interest, although a few of the women from before gave Tim sympathetic smiles.

Tim ignored them. He looked back to Mercedes, but she had turned to her neighbour on the left.

Tim let out the breath he’d been holding since he sat down. He’d clearly passed some sort of test. He reached for his wine with his free hand and took a celebratory drink.

* * *

Tim kept his head. He drank one glass of white wine during dinner, and another during dessert. It was a different kind of wine, something the colour of dark honey and very sweet, served in a tulip-shaped crystal glass.

They returned to the first room for dessert, where a selection of fruits, flaky, sugar-glazed pastries, and mini pies with golden crusts and sticky, oozing fillings, waited for them on the table once occupied by shrimp. Served alongside them, Tim was surprised to see, were the grocery store pies he’d brought and left in his back seat. He stared at the maple pumpkin pie for a stunned moment, wondering if he was being mocked for something. Then he decided he was too old to care about that and drank his dessert wine.

Mercedes sought him out several times during the night, always brief conversations about himself, his goals, his past. They were cotton-soft, easy questions, designed to get him to open up a little more. Tim suspected the actual test was finished, and he’d passed.

“It must’ve been difficult,” she said to him, more and more as the night went on. He never saw her without a glass of something in her hand, and he’d watched her drink two glasses during dinner. Her face appeared flushed in the flickering, intimate lighting, although she never stumbled once on her three inch stilettos.

“Plenty of things are difficult,” Tim said.

“My son, for example,” she said.

Rhys had vanished, swallowed up by a group of Mercedes’ friends. Tim caught him looking over more than once, always with the same wide-eyed, pinch-lipped smile on his face. Looking like a child that’d been called to the front of the class without the answers.

“You’re a brave man,” Mercedes went on. “Putting yourself in danger the way you do, again and again.”

“It’s not that bad,” Tim said, shifting his weight. “Honestly, the incident on Wednesday was the first time I was in danger of anything more painful than a cramp. This job is pretty quiet, most of the time.”

“You enjoy it,” she said. Tim shrugged, smiled sheepishly. “I’m glad.”

Rhys found them not long after, his face shiny and pale, smiling with an almost manic energy. “Tim! You said you wanted to be on the road before it got too late, right? We wanted to be home before midnight?”

It was the wine, maybe, that made Tim’s heart twist at Rhys’ words. The same wine that made Tim consider telling Rhys that he’d reconsidered, that he was having a fine time with his mother and her friends, and maybe they would just spend the night.

But, as tempting as it was to give Rhys hell for trying once again to use Tim as a scapegoat, Tim knew he couldn’t do it. Rhys looked as if he was coming apart at the seams.

“That’s right,” Tim said, taking pity. He turned to Mercedes with an apologetic smile. “I did want to take us home before midnight.”

She saw them out, as her staff fetched their coats and brought Rhys’ car around. She kissed Rhys on both cheeks, gave him a brief and fierce hug, both of which he tolerated with the stoicism of a man boarding a boat to the new world. He nodded at her before pushing his way out through the double doors and into the bracing night air. He walked down the stairs, the collar of his woolen pea coat turned up against the wind, looking very much like the way he always looked. Unbowed against the cold, well put-together, back straight and shoulders in a line.

Tim watched him, feeling the buzzing warmth behind his eyes from the few glasses of wine he’d had, as he struggled into his jacket.

He bid goodbye to Mercedes, tipping his head with a smile and promising that he would deliver her son home safely. She gripped his arm before he could step outside.

“You’ll look after him,” she said, her dark eyes almost liquid in the gilded light, fixed on him with a fierceness that would’ve knocked him back a step if she hadn’t kept a tight hold. “Won’t you?”

Tim’s mouth went dry. He swallowed and nodded, unable to speak.

She examined his face, and it was so like Rhys that it almost made Tim dizzy. She released him, apparently satisfied with whatever she found in his expression.

“He’s a good boy,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself. “Difficult, I know, but good. He likes you. Please don’t forget that. He likes you very much.”

Tim stumbled out into the night, feeling far drunker than he had moments ago. The cold air was better than a cup of black coffee. He inhaled it by the lungful and by the time he reached the driver’s side door of Rhys’ new car, he felt almost grounded again.

He looked up once to the front entrance, to where Mercedes stood in the same place she’d greeted them upon their arrived, a long silhouette cut into the square of amber light. He waved. She waved back.

Rhys had curled up in the passenger seat, his coat bundled around him like a blanket. He glared at Tim, which was fucking rich, as Tim keyed the ignition code and started the car.

“What did she say to you?” he asked.

“She said goodnight,” Tim said.

The car pulled out. Mercedes stood on the veranda, her arms wrapped tight around herself, watching them go. Tim had never had a mother. He didn’t know what to make of her regard, or the strange, almost angry desperation burning in her eyes when she asked him to look after her son. It made him ache, made him feel lonely in a way he hadn’t been since he was a teenager watching his foster parents interact with their real kids. Or with Jack.

The drive was dark and long and silent. There were stars hanging above but not many, not even this far from the city. Tim thought about the articles he’d read as a kid about light pollution, and about the darkness reserves you could find up north, far from any road, kept safe from any hint of civilization. Anything was better than thinking about the dinner, the look on Mercedes’ face, or about the person sitting beside him.

Finally, Rhys said, “Thank you.”

Tim looked over. Rhys stared resolutely out the windshield.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked.

Tim wondered if there was a right answer. “I’ve had worse nights.”

Rhys winced, fleetingly. “My mother can be… intense. There’s a good reason why she nearly drove Todd to a nervous break-down. I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner. I wanted to, but I swear she coordinated with her friends to keep me away.” He finally looked over at Tim. “She didn’t ask anything too personal, did she?”

“She asked what your favourite position was,” Tim said.

Rhys lurched forward, clapping both hands over his ears. “Oh god, shut your mouth. Even as a joke—! Never say anything like that to me again.”

“She told me what hers was,” Tim went on. “I thought that was a little improper— OW!” He flinched away as Rhys slammed his fist down onto his shoulder. “What are you, five? Stop hitting me.”

“You’re the child,” Rhys snapped, hitting him still. “Never talk about my mother again. You’re banned from mentioning her.”

“That’s going to make family dinners awkward, snuggle bug,” Tim fired back, shoving Rhys away with one hand.

Rhys huffed and settled back into his seat. He scowled out the window and fell silent. The radio was still playing, growing louder as they approached the city, picking up the signal. Tim didn’t recognize the song, but he didn’t recognize most songs recorded after 2001 or so.

“I thought it went well,” Rhys said after a while. He examined his cybernetic hand, running the soft pad of his thumb across a seam. Tim wondered if he was trying to get it warm again.

“I certainly fooled a lot of people,” Tim said, tearing his gaze away. A dark premonition stole over him, a vision of the future. Rhys had already thanked him. Why would he keep talking about it?

“It was very helpful,” Rhys said, his gaze lowered, fixed on his hands. “It would… continue to be very helpful, I think.”

Tim said nothing. He felt like a sinkhole had opened in his stomach.

Rhys took a breath. “Ever since the media picked up on the rumours of our, uh, ‘relationship’, things with our competition have gotten interesting. Remember Maliwan’s quick agreement? DAHL sent a nice message as well. You know we’re scheduled to renegotiate our distribution agreement with them. Before they were taking weeks to respond to our representatives, and now they’re responding within the hour. And they aren’t the only ones.” He turned to look at Tim, tipping his chin down. “It’s because of you, Tim.”

“Because of my brother, really,” Tim said. He watched the tall highway lamps flick past. The lanes grew wider and the road spread out on either side. The pitch black farmlands were replaced with grocery distribution centres, multiplexes and malls, and old warehouses. A warm-up to the city that glittered directly ahead.

“DAHL’s due before the end of the year. Maliwan can be bullied ahead of schedule,” Rhys said. “We can wrap this whole mess up before New Years. I could stop seeing all those women. My mother will stop trying to drive Todd into an early grave. And all of those annoying suitors will give me space to breathe.” His hands twisted together. “It would be helpful.”

Tim watched the city approach like a mirage. He could see Atlas, not quite the tallest, but one of the titans that dominated the sky. Its glass surface reflected the luminance that surrounded it, a golden spire in the centre of the downtown, stabbed right through the heart of the city.

It was absurd. It was almost cartoonish. Pretending to be in a relationship just because it would add a spoonful of sugar to the bitter medicine of their dealings with other companies.

No more dates, Rhys had said. No more standing outside of the restaurant, warming his hands with his breath, too stubborn to sit in the car, waiting while Rhys spent an hour getting to know some beautiful, interesting stranger.

Or getting stood up by someone who never existed, pulled into a honeytrap and getting into trouble. The pit inside of Tim’s stomach grew wider, large enough to take in some things that Tim was happy to see go.

“You haven’t even asked me yet,” Tim said, but that was as good as rolling over and showing his belly. Rhys rubbed his mouth, but it was too late. Tim saw his smile.

* * *

Jack made a big deal of how Tim was whipped, but if he really knew how bad it was, Tim would never hear the end of it. Jack would begin and end every conversation with it.

Tim insisted on walking Rhys up to his apartment again. Rhys allowed it with only minor needling.

“You know they’re all behind bars, right?” he said, but he didn’t object as Tim unlocked the elevator to the penthouse.

Rhys was graceful in his victory. He talked about their upcoming week, and the schedule he had planned. He would have to make adjustments to certain meetings, carve out some time to meet with Maliwan, and propose moving the DAHL meeting ahead in schedule.

“I’ll have the time, at least,” he said, bouncing on his heels. “Now that I don’t have to waste my lunch hours all over town just to make my mother happy. We can go back to eating take-out in the office.”

Tim absolutely hated what those words did to him. He kept it all off his face, crossed his arms over his chest, and watched the numbers climb.

The doors parted and Rhys stepped out into his entry way. Tim watched him and saw, for the briefest of moments, an alternate reality. One where Tim could follow him inside, could take his coat from his shoulders, curl his hand around the side of his neck and press a kiss under his ear, exactly as he’d been thinking of doing all night.

Longing swelled inside of him, hot and terrible, pressing against the back of his eyes until he had to blink it away.

Rhys looked over his shoulder. It was easier to see in the bright, white lights of his stark apartment, just how flushed his cheeks had become after all the wine.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

It was like travelling backwards in his own history, all those times he’d stood outside of a shitty bar with his knuckles already bloody, with the taste of cheap booze and the sour tang of vomit at the back of his throat. All those times he made eye contact with someone across a darkened room and felt the short hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Thumbing bill after bill into the steady hand of a stranger. When he could press his tongue against his teeth just to feel them wiggle.

It was just the same rush he’d gotten every time before, when he stood on the edge of a truly terrible decision.

Rhys was a good kid, Tim knew. Clean and brought up well. A nice house, an expensive education. People who would worry if he came home late. A mother who loved him more than he knew, and wouldn’t properly appreciate even if he did. Even without the wealth behind his name, he’d still be a catch.

“Seriously, Tim,” Rhys said, turning to face him fully. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Tim’s mouth said before the rest of him could catch on. “I’ll see you Monday, boss.”

Rhys smiled. “See you on Monday. I owe you.” The doors slid shut, saving Tim the indignity of making a proper response.

A different car was waiting for him when he emerged onto the street; Rhys’ new one had presumably gone to rest and recharge in the underground parking garage. Tim hesitated with his hand on the door. He turned and looked back, craning his neck to peer all the way up to the top of the ostentatiously named Imperial building. Another titan, another spire, another penthouse that held Rhys safe and sound and far, far away.

He’d planned to be patient for Rhys. He’d planned to be good, to give Rhys the time he needed. He’d been prepared to wait.

He could still feel the lines of Rhys’ cybernetic against his lips. He could close his eyes and see Mercedes staring back over her plate of untouched food, weighing Tim’s heart against a feather.

 _“You do love him,”_ she’d said, piercing him straight through.

The doorman cleared his throat. “Everything alright, sir?” he asked.

Tim gave him a pained smile. He’d been doing it all night, and now the muscles were strained and everything hurt. He got into his car and let it take him to his home across the city, where things were older and left to fall into disrepair.

Up five storeys and home at last, Tim breathed in the smell of cats and the chai-scented candle he’d burned for a few hours that morning. Thing One and Thing Two scurried in his path, looking back and complaining about their stomachs, criss-crossing in front of his feet. He filled their bowls and left them to their Thanksgiving feast of canned turkey giblets in gravy. He plugged in his phone and checked his messages.

Two from Jack, one from Angel. He breathed out. He didn’t know why he thought it would be more. It wasn’t as if Rhys had made an announcement on his Instagram. No baes or hashtag blessed or whatever.

Tim poured himself a small measure of bourbon, drank it in two gulps, and then poured another one. He leaned with both hands against his counter and stared out the window over his sink. He could see by the pools of dirty yellow light his neighbours’ yards, old machinery pulled apart and left on the grass, tall fences, and children’s plastic playground equipment. Whole lives being lived. This was a family neighbourhood, even if it wasn’t very nice.

He wobbled to the next room, where both of his cats were still eating their dinner. He knelt down to scratch Thing Two behind his ears, earning him a muffled growl.

Rhys’ gift sat on Tim’s beaten-up dining table. Tim tried not to think of it like that, because every time he did, it just made his stomach tremble unpleasantly. Like he’d eaten too much of something bad for him.

Would Rhys even want it? Rhys probably got all sorts of gifts for Christmas. Nice things, from people rich enough to buy not only Tim’s building, but the taller, nicer building next door, too. And all the houses on the street.

Tim had meant what he’d said to Mercedes. He could not work for someone who wasn’t as focused, intense as Rhys. He liked his job, but he could do it anywhere, for anyone. He wanted to stay with Rhys. He wanted to be good for Rhys, because he felt Rhys would be worth it. But he couldn’t stop himself from wanting other things. Selfish things. He rubbed the back of his sore neck.

He was prepared to be patient, but now he wasn’t so sure if he and Rhys were actually on the same page at all. If Rhys could go through with this charade, this farce, play a game with his public like Tim was a—a prop. Or a pawn. Then was there anything even there in the first place? If Rhys had any feelings for Tim at all, would he do this to him? Like it was a joke? Like it wouldn’t hurt?

Tim thought about Henson and his cronies, and all the wealth and opulence and the people who were used to it. He’d never felt so out of place. And everyone had known it.

Too late for regrets, now. He’d dug his grave. Time to lie in it.

Relax, he told himself as he took a sip of his drink. Play along for now. Rhys’ proposition didn’t have to mean that things were over. It might even be fun. A trial run. A way to get under Rhys’ skin, returning the favour.

Tim stared at the gift and blew out a breath. “Tim Lawrence, you goddamn idiot,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tumblr! That I only occasionally remember to link here it is: nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com
> 
> Next time: some fake dating in this fake dating AU.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Rhys go on a fake date. What a good idea!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for mentions of emotionally abusive relationships. Nothing explicit, but Tim's 20s were a rough time for him.

Tim came into work the next day, expecting…  something. An announcement, maybe. Like an engagement notice on Facebook, or for Rhys to make him pose for selfies. Maybe just an official press release, something to whet the appetites of the kind of journalists who report on Pop Sugar or ONTD. He expected more of a performance.

But there was nothing. Rhys treated him the same as he always did and things went on as normal.

Really, it was a little embarrassing how little they had to change in their routine. Tim stayed by Rhys’ side when they went out. He held his umbrella for him when it rained, he kept an eye on anyone approaching them, and he intercepted anyone Rhys didn’t want to talk to, as loyal and obedient as a well-trained dog.

Paparazzi followed them wherever they went, and a few new pieces appeared on the sites. Nothing more than two paragraph puff pieces, usually, just designed to fill space and time and bump up SEO, amusing the bored office workers who refreshed the front page over and over until something more interesting came up. Tim waited for the axe to fall, but it never did. After a few days, Tim let himself relax.

“We aren’t going to _tell_ them we’re dating, Tim,” Rhys explained something obvious when Tim finally asked. “That was never the plan. We’re just… not denying it, either.”

“Seems like that’s all it takes,” Tim said. Janey had been sending him links to every article that mentioned him, usually with nothing else attached except for a smiley face emoticon. He had no idea why she was doing it. Maybe she thought he’d be interested. Maybe she was trying to prove a point. Either way, Tim seldom replied.

Every day, Todd would stiffly pass on messages to him from magazines and tabloids looking for an interview. Some of them had started offering money.

Rhys snorted. “Of course. That was the idea. Did you see the latest from DAHL? They’d shine my boots if I asked.” He looked over his screens, grinning. “Yours too, I bet.”

“Pass,” Tim said, his attention drifting. Janey had sent him another article. A preview loaded as Tim’s cursor hung over the link, showing him an image of himself and Rhys during a grey afternoon. He had his arm outstretched, fingers resting on Rhys’ back, guiding him into the building. Nothing special, something he’d done a hundred times before.

But staring at it there, in his inbox, thinking about the context the writer must’ve put it in to, changed its meaning. Gave it unwanted significance. Even if they were only ever puff pieces, blips in the timeline of the internet’s endless content creation and consumption cycle, knowing that anyone would look at this picture of Tim and Rhys as if there was some secret meaning behind it, made something rise in Tim’s stomach. He deleted the email.

He glanced to the other desk, wondering if Rhys had seen the same article, maybe expecting to meet his gaze in a moment of shared, private understanding. But Rhys’ attention was on his work. Tim looked down and followed suit.

Although Rhys had been initially giddy about his reclaimed private office lunchtime freedoms, he decided they would have to make a few public appearances.

“Once or twice a week,” Rhys decided, tapping his stylus against his lower lip. “A few lunches outside, at places where it’s not obvious if we’re meeting for business or for pleasure.”

Something shivered like a plucked string inside of Tim. He took a breath and ignored it.

“Whatever you want, boss,” he said. Rhys tilted his gaze towards Tim and observed him for a silent moment, rolling the stylus over his mouth.

“You know, it would probably help if you touched me a little more,” he said at last. “Nothing obvious, but maybe let your hands linger on me when you’re helping me into or out of the car? Like you can’t help yourself.”

Tim looked down at his hands and smothered the anger that flared like the flash of a camera blub behind his eyes. He wanted to break something. He wanted to cross the room, yank Rhys’ chair back from his desk, take that stylus from Rhys’ hand, pull him up by his lapels and—

“Okay,” Tim said instead, staring at his desk. “I’ll try.”

He knew, deep down, that he wouldn’t have to try very hard.

* * *

For a few weeks, everything went smoothly. Rhys took Tim out for lunch when their schedules allowed, and Tim did his best to perform as he was expected to. He touched Rhys when it wasn’t necessary, nothing more salacious than a brush of fingers against the back of his hand, or a guiding grip on his elbow, but it seemed like enough. Every morning after, Rhys would have his fansites open, crowing over the images that’d been taken the night before.

It wasn’t just the paparazzi that were looking for them now—more often than not, Tim found himself confronted with a grainy cellphone image of the two of them seated at their table, taken by some nosy member of the public.

‘CORPORATE LOVE AFFAIR CONTINUES?’

Maliwan had gotten back to them again, bending to some of their requests, and offering compromise on others. They weren’t quite unbuttoning their trousers and bending over the desk, Rhys told Tim, but they were starting to loosen their ties, unbutton their collars.

“Every new story makes them sweat,” Rhys said. “And did you see? Atlas stocks went up again. Not a lot, but the shareholders and the board have taken notice. They’re almost happy! For once!”

At least someone was.

Tim adjusted. It wasn’t unlike his time with the Lance. Any unpleasant or painful action could become tolerable upon repetition. He could play his role, he could put his hands on Rhys and keep them there like it was the only thing in the world he wanted to do (it wasn’t, for the record—not always), and do it without flinching. So long as things didn’t get worse, he felt confident he could see it through ‘til January without breaking.

But the universe had ears for such statements, even if they were never spoken out loud, and Tim really should’ve known better.

At the end of the second week, Rhys stopped Tim before he left to fetch their lunches and told him that they would have to step up their game. He told Tim exactly how they would do that, speaking with the same confidence he’d adopt during any meeting where he had to lay out the future to some underling.

Tim stared at him. Static cycled between his ears. At last, he said, “A date.”

Rhys nodded. He’d pushed most of his screens aside for their meeting, but one still hovered to the left side of his face, showing a stream of processing code. A flicker of movement that seemed to catch Rhys’ attention as he spoke.

“That’s right,” he said. “The celebrity gossip cycle is starting to lose interest in us. Even the local mags are moving on. I figured something like this would happen, but I was sort of hoping the novelty of them seeing me date anyone—never mind the _twin_ of my _arch nemesis_ —would be enough to keep them entertained until Christmas.” He pursed his lips, gaze flicking to the read-out. “No luck, I guess. So we need to give them something new to talk about. A real date, after work hours, in public.”

Tim felt it like a line of fire down his spine, lit up like the long fuse to a stick of dynamite. “A ‘real’ date?” he asked, but Rhys didn’t seem to hear the warning creak of thin ice under his words.

He looked away from his code. “I was thinking tonight would be best, because I can reschedule that 8am call with Germany tomorrow to 10am. We can go someplace nice. Have I taken you to Ferraud’s? You like French, right? I’ll have Todd get us a reservation for 8pm. I can arrange for your ride.”

The screen clicked over, and new information began to stream from the top down. Rhys glanced over and scratched his chin with his stylus. “I don’t suppose you have something to wear? You won’t need to go full black tie, but you’ll need something a little more extravagant than what you wear to work every day. I’ll call my tailor. I’ll let her know to expect you. It won’t be bespoke, not on this short a notice, but she’ll have something she can alter for you. Something nice…” His eyes glazed over. He stared at the screen as if hypnotized. Without looking over, he reached for a new screen from the pile at his elbow and began to work. A dismissal.

Something nice. The fire in Tim filled his head with smoke. He felt almost drunk as he walked from the office and into the elevator, down and onto the street where a car was waiting for him.

Rhys was going to take him out for dinner, to someplace nice, and he would have to wear something nice, and he had to _be_ nice, lest anyone get the wrong idea about them. He had to play the role of besotted boyfriend and make eyes at his boss during his free time and Rhys didn’t even ask him if he even wanted to do this. If he was even free.

Because he knew, just as Tim knew, that he wouldn’t say no. He never would.

Rhys’ tailor wasn’t far from the office and it didn’t take Tim long. She made him stand on a wooden stool in the centre of her shop and measured him, whistling low under her breath when she got to his shoulders. She held up folded slacks in various shades of black and blue for his approval.

“We’ll keep it simple for you,” she said, taking notes with a pencil stub. “Rhys sent me his look for tonight. He’ll be the peacock, and you’ll be the black bird. That won’t be a problem, right?”

Tim had no idea. He gave her a smile that felt like a grimace, and she laughed pleasantly at nothing in the way of all people who were forced into customer service as part of their jobs.

 “I’ve got something that’ll look striking on you,” she said, tucking her pencil behind her ear. “I’ll have it ready and delivered to you by 6pm tonight. Can you give me your address?”

In fact, she had it ready by 5pm and the well-paid delivery person was waiting for Tim as he pulled up at 5:15pm.

She gave Tim a strained smile as he fumbled with his signature. “Last minute wedding?”

Tim nearly dropped the pad. He laughed nervously and shoved it back into her arms, took his suit in its black garment bag, and retreated to his apartment.

He made a drink before he did anything else, including feeding his demanding cats. He stared at the bottle and clung to his glass as if it were a stone in a rushing current, the last solid thing before the river pulled him over the falls.

Ridiculous, he tried to tell himself. He was being overdramatic. It was just one night. Only a few hours. His life was long, and it would be longer. This was a blink in the grand scheme of things.

What was the worst that could happen?

Tim tried to come up with an answer as he buttoned his shirt. He tried to think of scenarios as he wound the belt around his waist. His mind was a dead channel, giving only broken pictures and static. He gave up and focused on his breathing instead.

Tim buttoned his cuffs, forced his body to relax, and made himself look at his reflection.

They’d dressed him in a black three-piece, with a black shirt. The lapels of his jacket had a black on black herringbone pattern, matched to his vest, difficult to see until it caught the light. It was cut slim on him around his chest, on his shoulders and his arms, but it didn’t feel restrictive. A blue pocket square with a small floral print served as a splash of colour. They’d let him get away without wearing a tie. Supposedly, this was more modern.

He did look nice.

* * *

Tim didn’t realise he had no idea where he was supposed to go until his car pulled itself up to what looked like a slice of Paris dropped into the city.

Ferraud’s wasn’t new—it’d been open for almost five years now—but it was classic. It topped nearly every ‘best restaurant in the city’ list aimed at wealthy tourists. The sort of place the celebrities liked to eat while they were in town for a shoot.

It never interested Tim. He was the sort of person to prefer hidden gems, best kept secrets, and hole in the wall joints. Affordable places. The sort of places, he realised, he would take Rhys when they had to grab dinner on the way home from a late off-site meeting.

Tim was the first to arrive. The host—or maître d, Tim supposed—seated him straight away. Tim wasn’t given much time to appreciate his surroundings before a waiter arrived, poured him a glass of sparkling water without asking, and pushed a wine list under his nose.

And then she stood there, radiating polite efficiency and silent judgement, while he tried to speed read a list of French names. There were a lot of them, and the longer he spent looking at them, the more aware he became of the time he was wasting. In the end, he asked her for her recommendation.

“What sort of dish are you planning on eating tonight, sir?” she asked.

Tim looked at her, helpless as a kindergartner learning to tie his shoes. “What?” he asked.

“For pairing,” she said with endless patience. “For example, if you were thinking of ordering the beef, I would recommend…” And off she went, rattling off names too quickly for Tim to follow. Her accent was flawless. The people at the other tables must’ve started to notice. No doubt everyone was wondering why it would take someone so long to pick a simple bottle of wine before their dinner. Tim began to sweat under his collar.

“It’ll be vegetables,” he said when she came up for air. “My b—date, uh. Is a vegetarian.”

She blinked. “Then, the 2012 Chablis Chardonnay. It pairs particularly well with the chanterelle risotto.”

“Great. We’ll have one of those,” Tim said, relief rising like a steam.

Left alone at last, Tim sipped his water and examined his surroundings. It looked nice. His gaze bounced through the room, trying to take anything in, but all the details he observed slid away from his mind like fat melting in a pan. He was left with vague impressions of things glittering in the shadows, candles like twinkling constellations on other peoples’ tables.

A few of the other guests looked his way, but no one stared for long. It was that kind of place.

Tim wondered if it would be impolite to take his phone from his pocket. He wondered how long it’d been since he sat down. Maybe Rhys had texted? It would be impolite to ignore a text from his date.

Seconds took so long to crawl past that Tim felt convinced they were minutes. He thought maybe Rhys had decided to call off the date, or perhaps he’d gotten caught up with work and had forgotten. That seemed more likely.

Tim couldn’t predict how that would make him feel. Disappointed? Relieved? He would have to put the wine on the company card, because there was no way in hell he was going to pay $200 for a damn bottle of white after getting stood up. Maybe he would treat himself to a three-course meal, drink the bottle and eat his order in public under the silent and side-ways observation of everyone else in the restaurant, put it all on the card and then go home to sleep the night away. He would wake up tomorrow with a hangover and a stomach ache, but with a renewed sense of his place. He would know where he belonged, where his feet were planted. That, at least, would be a relief.

Rhys arrived just as the wine did, dashing some of Tim’s hopes and nursing others into life.

Tim flinched in his seat like someone had administered an electric shock. His knee hit the table, rattling the glasses and spilling his water. He stood up without much grace, his face burning. Rhys’ photo-ready smile flickered like the candlelight and, for a moment, Tim was certain he would laugh at him. And then it shrank away entirely.

They stared at each other.

Rhys looked better than nice. He looked _incredible_. He wore a slim-cut, three-piece royal blue suit, the colour so vibrant it looked almost indigo. He wore a black shirt with small golden collar, with golden buttons, and a black silk patterned pocket square. Like Tim, he wore no tie. Unlike Tim, he wore a thick golden band on his index finger, and a golden watch with a black leather strap. Patterned, Tim realised, to match his black leather belt. Everything looked as if it’d been stitched onto Rhys’ frame moments before he stepped into the restaurant.

Rhys hadn’t said anything. His gaze sank to Tim’s throat and further to his chest. He licked his lips.

The server cleared her throat.

“Your wine?” she said, making it sound like a different question entirely.

Tim’s face couldn’t possibly get any warmer. His body took over while his mind ran itself around in circles and walked him to the other side of the table.

“You look nice,” his mouth said. He pulled out Rhys’ chair.

Rhys stared up at him as he took his seat.

“Likewise,” he breathed in response, almost too low to be heard.

Tim reclaimed his seat. Their server presented the label, explaining its origin, as she uncorked and poured a small measure into a glass, which she offered to Tim. Tim took it gratefully and tossed it back.

The server stared at him, her expression frozen like a computer screen. Rhys stared at Tim with gleaming eyes and his mouth hidden behind his hand.

“It’s great,” Tim said, holding out his glass. “Can’t wait to have the rest of it.”

She poured him a proper glass, and one for Rhys as well. Tim watched in fascination as she made a production of it, wiping down the lip of the bottle with a linen napkin between each pour. He wondered if this sort of fastidiousness would be the theme of the evening. He found it hard to think of anything beyond the next taste of his wine.

Rhys watched Tim with that same half-hidden expression as their poor server went over the daily menu. She primarily spoke to Rhys, which was a relief. Tim didn’t have the energy to feign interest in or knowledge of French.

Rhys, perhaps sensing as much, placed both their orders. The server seemed just as relieved as Tim as she took their little menus and left them with their wine in a bucket of ice.

“Well.” Rhys picked his glass up by its delicate neck and raised it. “To us?”

Tim’s stomach folded in over itself at Rhys’ words. He searched Rhys’ face for a hint of irony, or any clues as to what his next moves should be. Rhys only looked back, smiling pleasantly through the candle light, his expression as transparent as a window.

He raised his own glass and it felt like a white flag in his hands, surrendering himself. To the evening. To whatever Rhys had planned for them. To Rhys, really. Tim would go wherever Rhys lead them, just as they both always knew he would.

“To us,” Tim said, and tapped their rims together in a cheers.

* * *

The longer Tim spent in that restaurant, the more his observations could penetrate the fog in his head. There were candles on every table, and the other lights were kept low. It left everyone to squint at their dinner partners, trying to see through the flickering shadows. It made it difficult to tell if the other person’s smile was genuine or just a trick of light. Tim could feel the uncertainty, the exciting unease that hung in the air like fog.

Or maybe that was just the wine talking.

Their little table was like a dinghy in a sea of dim candlelight. The other diners regarded them off and on, which Tim supposed was the point. They were there to be seen. Tim felt it like a presence, a weight on his shoulders and on the back of his head. He wondered if Rhys could feel it, too. If Rhys could feel it all the time.

Rhys didn’t look a bit troubled. He sipped his wine and smiled with ease—or was that just the lights? Tim thought longingly of their Thanksgiving, when Rhys had seemed more tense and his smile looked close to painful. They’d both been unhappy, both ill-at-ease, and now Tim felt as if he’d been abandoned. Marooned in a social situation he was hopeless to navigate.

Rhys caught his eye—the butter yellow glow of his ECHOeye was easy to track—and leaned a little forward.

“You need to relax,” he said quietly.

Tim considered his nearly empty glass of wine. He’d had too much to drink already, although it was only his first since sitting down. He’d drank it quick, before even their appetizers arrived. Rookie mistake. The tide of alcohol tipped his mind, sent his thoughts sliding, all of it in danger of being capsized. Another drink would do the trick. Tim would make a fool of himself, and it would serve Rhys right.

But… Rhys had already seen just how bad he could get with the bottle. As annoying as this whole farce was, Rhys didn’t deserve to see it again. Tim reached for his water.

Rhys talked a bit about their impending Maliwan deal. Even under the smooth veneer of his dinner date persona, Tim could see the flashes of real emotion. Rhys could not be more pleased about the way things were going. He practically bounced in his seat like a child about to eat an entire birthday cake.

Their starters arrived at last. The server set down a plate of scallops in front of Tim, murmuring about the cauliflower puree, the escarole, and other things Tim lost track of within seconds. Rhys had a plate of chestnut ravioli and a beet salad. He smiled at the server until she left, and then he shook his head.

“I’d forgotten how retro this place is. Can you believe they’ve only got two vegetarian options for apps? A salad and ravioli.” He pierced a bleeding beet with his fork.

“The soup might’ve been vegetarian,” Tim said as he started on his scallops.

Rhys rolled his eyes—a movement Tim could follow as the gleam of the ECHO curved. “I wouldn’t have had this problem at Planta.”

 _“You_ picked this place,” Tim said as he pushed one scallop into the smear of cauliflower puree. “I would’ve been just as unhappy there.”

Rhys frowned, his fork hovering above his plate. “I picked this place because I thought you might feel more relaxed if you could eat meat.”

“You got me dressed up in this fancy suit, you put me in this fancy restaurant, make me perform as the fake romantic lead in your pretend romcom, and you think all it would take is some _meat_ to put me at ease?” For some reason, that struck Tim as very funny. He smiled and shook his head while Rhys looked down at his plate. “Boss, even for you, that’s a bit of a stretch.”

“What do you mean, ‘even for me’?” Rhys asked, annoyed.

“I meant what I said. Anyway, you know I don’t mind vegetarian food,” Tim said. “I take us to vegetarian joints all the time.”

Rhys hollowed his cheek—which Tim knew to mean he was chewing on it. He pushed a ravioli through the red and green smear of puree’d whatever curled around the edge of his plate.

“I was just trying to be considerate,” Rhys said. His smile had gone. Tim felt bad about that, but not very.

“I can see why you might be out of practice,” Tim said before shoving a garlicy, buttery scallop into his mouth. They were really quite nice.

“The duck is supposed to be excellent here,” Rhys went on, as if Tim hadn’t spoken. “I wouldn’t know, of course…”

“Is that what you got for me?” Tim asked. Rhys nodded. “Well, thanks. I’ll let you know how it is.”

Rhys glanced to the other table without moving his head. He popped a delicate bite of ravioli into his mouth and chewed carefully. Tim wondered if Rhys had been taught how to eat at whatever factory line for spoiled little boys they’d assembled him on. There probably had been lessons on etiquette at his school and little baby Rhys had probably attended to them diligently.

Tim amused himself with imagining the small boy Rhys must’ve been, dressed in a little suit with short pants, and his hair styled just the same as it was now. He’d be skinny, too, but not in the way Tim and Jack had been—not that drawn, underfed look that leant a cruel, narrowness to their features. He’d be skinny because he’d have outgrown his baby fat, because he would’ve shot up like a weed and stretched all his softness out like taffy. He would sit up in a large, carved chair with his back straight and his head high, and the correct fork in his hand.

“We should have a conversation,” Rhys said to his salad, interrupting Tim’s mental image. “People will start to notice.”

“I thought that was the point,” Tim said. Would tiny Rhys have the cybernetics? Tim could dimly recall reading that Rhys had been born without a fully formed right arm, so it was possible. What about the eye? Tim tried to recall if he’d seen any pictures of Rhys without the ECHO. “How long have you had an ECHOeye?” he asked.

Rhys looked up, startled. “Oh, uh. Yikes. I haven’t thought about it in a while. Must be a little over six years now.”

“Did you have some other prosthetic before? Or wear an eyepatch?” Tim asked.

“Oh, no. No, I never actually needed to get my eye replaced,” he said. Tim stared. “You see, Atlas had just developed the technology to interface with external networks and with internally installed tech.” Rhys raised his cybernetic and flexed his fingers. “I thought it would give me a little edge to replace my eye with the ECHO. As usual,” he went on proudly, “I was right.”

Tim continued to stare. “You just… had them cut your perfectly good eye out and replace it with untested technology?”

Rhys’ beaming smile went down a few degrees. “It wasn’t untested,” he said. Tim shook his head again. Rhys jabbed his fork at him. “Don’t tell me there aren’t parts of yourself you wouldn’t replace and upgrade with cooler, more futuristic alternatives if you had the chance.”

“I hadn’t really given it much thought,” Tim admitted.

“The ECHOeye is an obvious choice,” Rhys said. “I think it’ll be popular among the transhumanist crowd, once we can figure out how to produce it more cheaply. This one—“ He tapped the side of his head with the blunt end of his knife. “—is worth close to fifteen million.”

Tim whistled, low and impressed. The woman seated at the table beside theirs glanced at him and quickly away. He pretended not to notice.

“I can’t think of any part of me I’d really want to replace,” Tim said. “I guess an eye would look interesting. Maybe a metal nose, like in that music video.”

“What the hell would a metal nose do?” Rhys asked. “And what music video?”

“Genghis Kahn? That song that got a lot of radio play a few years ago?” Tim looked expectantly at Rhys, who stared blankly back. “Jesus. You don’t know Carly Rae, you don’t know the Genghis Kahn song… What kind of music do you even listen to?”

“Good music,” Rhys said. “And for the record, I’ve had that damn Carly Rae song stuck in my head for almost two weeks now.”

Tim’s eyebrows went up. “Oh. So. Since…?” he asked, inclining his head meaningfully.

Rhys turned his attention back to his plate. He ate another ravioli. Tim took the cue and polished off his last scallop.

“It’s a catchy song,” Rhys said once he’d finished chewing.

“Very,” Tim said.

Rhys’ gaze drifted over to Tim’s face, where it remained as he regarded him for a beat. Tim’s spine stiffened in response the way it would any time his CO would so much as breathe in his direction, an ancient instinct.

“Is Angel okay?” Rhys asked, throwing him.

Tim blinked. “She’s fine?” He hadn’t meant to make it a question. Angel was fine, last he’d heard.

“You mentioned she was staying with you before,” Rhys said. “That night, when…” He trailed off. The server appeared moments later, removing their plates and refilling their glasses before vanishing again.

Tim considered his freshly poured wine. “Did I ever tell you,” he began, “how Angel and I met?”

“How you met… your niece?” Rhys asked, one eyebrow quirked as if he expected Tim to start laughing. Tim didn’t. “Well… No, but I never would’ve thought to ask. She’s your niece. I guess I figured you would’ve met her at the hospital she was born at.”

Tim sipped his wine. He didn’t know why he brought it up in the first place, but now he felt compelled to tell a story he’d never actually shared with anyone.

“I was with the Lance when Jack got Angel’s mom pregnant,” Tim began. His head felt warm, but the food he’d just put in his belly would absorb what it needed to. He grabbed a piece of complimentary bread from the basket for safety. “I found out by email, probably about a week after he found out. It wasn’t that we weren’t talking to each other at the time, but things between us were… strained. He was pissed at me for taking off in the marines. I was pissed at him for making the first decent thing I had feel like it was all about him. Story of my damn life.”

They’d had words before Tim left. Well. _Tim_ had words, rather, because Jack kept giving them to him by the mouthful, talking at first in the strained, reasonable tone he must’ve practiced and escalating into shouting when it became obvious Tim wasn’t going to roll over for him this time. Tim’s jaw had cracked with the effort of keeping in all the words he’d wanted so badly to give to Jack in return. All the things he could’ve told him.

_You left first, asshole._

Rhys huffed, half-smiling. Tim dug his thumbnail into the crust and began to gently rip the roll in half.

“Anyway. Angel was born when I was still abroad. I think I sent flowers.” Jack had emailed him in the middle of his night, which had surprised Tim. He’d expected to hear about it in a letter, or a generic notice sent out to a list of Jack’s friends and coworkers. Something as impersonal as a public Facebook post. Instead, Jack had emailed him the very same night she’d been born. Only a few lines, but Tim remembered them.

_I have a daughter. Baby girl. Seven pounds. I think we’ll name her Angel._

_Tim, you should see her. You would not believe how small she is._

It was the closest Jack had ever come to writing ‘I miss you, please come home’. For almost an hour afterwards, Tim was tempted.

“I didn’t actually meet her until she was… four?” Tim paused, knife poised mid-spread. “Must’ve been four. I hadn’t been home in almost ten years, by then.”

“Not even for holidays?” Rhys asked. Tim lifted one shoulder.

“I spent my holidays travelling,” he said. Running, really.

“What made you finally come back?” Rhys asked. And then his curious expression froze, as if he were able to put the timeline together himself.

“You remember Jack’s accident?” Tim asked anyway. Other people had been injured in the explosion, but Tim would always think of it like that. As belonging to Jack. To _them_. “I got word through the sat phone. I was working with the Lance by then.”

Tim could recall taking the phone in his hand, putting it against his ear, but that’s where the memory grew fuzzy, broken, like something tuned to a bad signal. The next thing Tim could clearly recall was sitting in a terminal in Kandahar with his army green duffel stuffed between his legs, eyes fixed on the departures screen.

“I booked a ticket home as soon as I could.” Although Tim could not actually remember doing so. “I went straight to the hospital after I landed. It’d been maybe two days since Jack got admitted. Things were still pretty up in the air. We weren’t sure if he would… You know.

“I found Angel in the waiting room. She was with her nanny. I think they’d gone home over night, but it didn’t look like either of them had gotten any sleep. Angel was pretty little at the time, but she was just old enough to understand her daddy might not come home with her.” Tim stopped, his voice hitching against the lump in his throat.

He would always remember the first time he laid eyes on Angel. Seated in a plastic chair, with her legs dangling a few inches from the ground. Someone—probably her nanny—had put her in a nice purple dress with white stockings and black buckled shoes. Her black hair brushed and plaited, pulled back from her pale face. Her eyes were pink and her cheeks looked sticky with dried tears.

Back in the present, a warm hand closed over Tim’s. Tim’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t pull away. Rhys looked at Tim with an expression full of softness.

“I’m sorry,” Rhys said. “I didn’t mean to drag this up.”

Tim laughed, quiet and brief. “It’s fine. It turned out fine, didn’t it? Jack survived and lived long enough to drag poor Angel to my apartment after my accident the other week. That’s why he did it,” Tim went on, his voice growing bitter. “Angel’s got a lot of childhood trauma around hospitals and accidents. He shoved her in my face because he knew how guilty it’d make me feel.”

Some of the softness went out of Rhys’ expression as his lips twisted. He looked as if he had something to say to that, but he kept his silence.

Tim continued. “Angel recognized me immediately. Back in the hospital five years ago, I mean. I’d sent her some birthday cards, some pictures. And, you know.” Tim gestured at his face, once the mirror image of Jack’s before the accident. “I introduced myself anyway, because I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I shook her hand. I hadn’t slept in more than 24 hours. I gave her a stuffed toy I’d bought from the Berlin airport gift shop. I think it was a dog. She didn’t say much to me. I think I scared her, a little.”

“Why?” Rhys asked.

“Imagine waiting to find out if your only family in the whole world was going to pull through or not, and then meeting the one person in the world who looks exactly like him. I don’t think she knew what to make of me.” Tim reached for his wine with his free hand. “That made two of us.”

“That’s… Wow,” Rhys said. “You’ve really lead an eventful life, haven’t you?”

“That’s a nice word for it,” Tim said, swishing the wine. “I’d say ‘fucked up’, myself, but you go with whatever works for you.”

“I’m trying to be polite,” Rhys said drily.

It was his human hand, Tim realised. The warm one, the left one, the one he’d put on Tim’s in the centre of the table. And he hadn’t moved it. Tim drank.

It shouldn’t have gotten him this flustered. Tim touched Rhys all the time. His face, his back, his arms. Adjusting his collar, tying his ties, applying his make-up, guiding him to and from doors and into and out of cars. Tim had spent the last year putting his hands on Rhys.

But for some reason, he could not recall the last time Rhys had touched him.

Tim took another sip of his wine and let his head fill with warm static. Easy not to think at all, as he turned his hand over, and curled his fingers around Rhys’ palm. Tim was reminded of the cybernetic, of the feel of its seams against the pads of his fingers. He ran his thumb across the back of Rhys’ hand, feeling the ridges of his knuckles, the lines of his tendons and fine bones.

“Jack’s accident was the reason I left my old job with the Lance,” Tim continued. “Angel and I spent the whole night in the waiting room, waiting for Jack to come out of his third surgery. I taught her card games and played I Spy. She fell asleep on my lap. I knew I wasn’t gonna leave again after that.” Tim smiled weakly. “How could I?”

Rhys stared at Tim with widened eyes, looking at him like he was the twist ending in a familiar movie. “Right,” he said.

Distantly, Tim could hear the swell of stringed instruments, excited murmuring and quiet applause, travelling across the waves of golden wine between his ears, from a different island entirely. He couldn’t bring himself to pay any mind. Rhys’ hand felt warm and soft in his.

“I told Angel that I would stay with her, no matter how things turned out,” Tim said. “I told Jack the same thing next time I saw him, but he was so doped up on pain meds…” Tim trailed off, the memory pulling at his words with the insistent hands of a child.

Jack had looked up at him from his recovery bed, his one remaining eye glazed with the memory of pain and sleep, watching Tim without his usual guards. Looking like the little boy Tim hadn’t seen for almost twenty years.

“Bout time,” Jack had slurred. He reached for Tim with the one arm that wasn’t tucked around his sleeping daughter.

“Do you regret coming home?” Rhys asked, hooking Tim back into the present.

Someone tapped their silverware against the rim of their glass at one of the other tables. There was another swell of music, and the hushed sound of voices whispering encouragement. Tim looked around and saw the wet shine of a polished violin in the pale hands of its musician, and a golden gleam hanging over a table like a Christmas ornament.

He frowned, still staring. “It was an adjustment. I’d gotten accustomed to being useful, to doing good work. Feeling like I was needed. Coming home meant I had to give that all up.” The musician had moved on. It was too dark to see what was happening.

Rhys squeezed his fingers. “You’re still needed,” he said.

“The first few years were the hardest,” Tim said, turning back to Rhys. “Even if it wasn’t a nice job, it was good work and I was good at it. I had my friends. I had some stability. I had control over my life and when that became too overwhelming, I had orders I could follow. And I lost all that.” He hesitated. “And… It was the first time in my life I got to live outside of Jack. The friends I made—they knew me as an individual, and not as a twin to… to someone like Jack.”

To not be held up in comparison. To not live in a shadow. To exist on his own terms, judged by his own worth… Tim hadn’t realised how much he needed it until he’d had it. And lost it.

He snuck a look at Rhys and the treacherous thoughts he’d been trying to keep at bay writhed from the cracks in his self-control. The Lance had poached Tim from the marines because he was good at his job. Would Rhys have brought Tim on if it weren’t for Jack?  

“Were you happy with the Lance?” Rhys asked, breaking into Tim’s thoughts.

Tim couldn’t think of an appropriate answer to such a large and existential question. As if happiness was a shirt he could wear and wear out, something he could keep.

“I don’t know, Rhys,” he said, finally. “That’s a pretty big question.”

Rhys frowned. “No, it isn’t. It’s an easy one. You know when you’re happy, and you know when you’re not.”

Tim wanted to protest. It felt too pat, too simple, but his memories caught up with him before he could say as much. Memories of a run-down house, its walls slumped over, the smell of old newspaper and stale cigarette smoke so thick it could smother. The rumbling snore of someone asleep in front of the television, and the clamoring voices of those prayer shows, an endless proclamation of the end times. Tim did know, very well, when he had been unhappy.

“I wasn’t miserable,” Tim allowed.

Rhys chewed his lower lip. Somewhere to their left and getting closer was another burst of sound, of amused and charmed voices and the pleasant, light twitter of strings. Tim could see the light moving in his periphery, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away. The evolutionary responses that wired his animal brain to track movement were overwhelmed, silenced by the look Rhys aimed at him, at the anchor of his hand in Tim’s.

Oh no, Tim thought faintly.

“Are you happy now?” Rhys asked.

Oh _no_ , Tim thought with increased desperation.

“With you?” he returned weakly.

Rhys’ eyes widened a fraction. He opened his mouth and Tim suddenly didn’t want him to say anything, because he knew the answer he had was a mess. A tangle of words clogged in his throat like hair in a drain. An ugliness no one needed to see—especially not Rhys.

And then the music was beside them, inside Tim’s ear. The musician—a woman in a suit with a vest and tails—stood at their table with her violin tucked under her chin and sweet music falling from her fingers. Tim breathed out, and the congestion eased inside of him. For once, it seemed, the universe had his back.

Really, in much the same way that what happens to Charlie Brown when he takes a run at the football balanced under Lucy’s finger is his fault, what happened next was Tim’s. Because at that moment, Tim noticed that the golden, glittering thing he’d seen before was in fact a gold ribbon wrapped around a sprig of mistletoe, hanging from the violin’s bow.

The musician winked when she met Tim’s eye, no doubt misinterpreting his expression of dawning horror. With a red-lipped smile, she inclined her head and bowed slightly over the table, bringing the mistletoe to dangle over their heads.

Tim looked at Rhys. Rhys looked back at Tim. Their neighbours had turned to watch them both, waiting to see what would happen next. Hanging above their heads like a bad omen, the berries of the mistletoe gleamed like the tip of a blade. Their hands were still clasped together at the centre of the table and it was the only thing hooking Tim into the present. The alcohol in his head had boiled away, leaving him stranded, and painfully sober.

Rhys raised an eyebrow and tipped his head to the side, a question asked without even moving his lips.

His lips. Tim stared, unsure of what his response should be.

This was always Tim’s trouble. Half a lifetime spent in fear had left him with a broken fight or flight response. He froze every time when it mattered. His mind stalled out and spun its wheels in the mud.

His muscles, at least, didn’t share the same crushing burden of consciousness. They were free to act on their own impulse, which was why Tim began to lean forward, just as Rhys did. Why he was able to curl his free hand around the back of Rhys’ neck, to push his fingers through Rhys’ stiff hair. Rhys put his other hand on Tim’s forearm, holding him.

Their lips met. It was their first kiss.

The part of Tim that was still capable of thought had wanted to keep things chaste, brief, safe. A dry peck, the sort of thing people would use to greet elderly relatives, or to seal a loveless marriage in church.

But that part of Tim was small and getting smaller, and Rhys’ lips were warm and soft and he tasted like something sweet, and faintly earthy. Like truffle oil and honey vinaigrette. Tim was not a strong man at the best of times, and he’d never been good at resisting his impulses.

He opened his mouth as if he were asking for and granting permission, which Rhys gave and accepted, and their kiss was no longer chaste. Rhys made a very quiet sound, something for only Tim’s ears, something he could somehow hear above his own rushing blood. Rhys’ fingers tightened on Tim’s arm, metal pressing into the fabric of his jacket.

Tim could not say how long they spent like that, his hand in Rhys’ hair, the both of them half-risen from their chairs and leaning over their glasses. Tim only pulled away when he felt his lungs burn, and he did not intend to stay away long.

As soon as they broke apart, however, it was like stripping the blanket of their warm moment and cold reality came rushing in.

He untangled his hand from Rhys’ hair and sank back down. Rhys did the same, as if they’d rehearsed it.

Tim heard someone titter. Someone else cleared their throat. The musician gave them a twinkling smile and moved on. Tim had to force himself not to look down with shame, to keep the guilt he inexplicably felt off of his face.

Rhys sat back and pulled a tube of lip gloss from his inner pocket. Tim watched him stupidly while he applied it.

Had that happened? The tingling on his lips and the soreness of his arm told him it had, but Tim had learned a long time ago that he could be a gullible man. Maybe he wasn’t even asking the right question.

Rhys’ lip-gloss closed with a click. He pushed his hand through his hair, smoothing down the longer curls at the back of his neck, erasing any evidence that Tim had touched him. Tim could still feel their texture on his fingers. If he wanted to, he could still smell Rhys’ product on his hand. He kept both of his hands folded on the table. His fingers had gone cold and Rhys wasn’t looking at him.

Rhys looked up only when their server arrived. He smiled at her as she set down their plates; a familiar look Tim had seen countless times before.

He’d often thought that Rhys had practiced his expressions in a mirror, learning the proper way to raise his eyebrow, to widen his eyes, to quirk his lips. The right way to assemble a pleasant, impersonal expression. A photo-ready look as opaque as a sand storm.

Always before, Tim had felt smug pride in his ability to see beyond it. To cut through all of Rhys’ flash and shine, his pomp and circumstance, to the soft and frustrating human being under all the chrome.

Tim looked at Rhys’ face as their server murmured facts about his roast duck in a soothing voice and tried to find him now.

Rhys caught Tim’s eye at last. He smiled and it was nothing. There was nothing.

* * *

The rest of the dinner passed like a dream. Time stretched and snapped as Rhys steered their conversation away from existential questions about happiness, into safer waters.

He talked about work because they both knew it best. Tim ate his duck, which tasted like nothing in his mouth, and tried to contribute where he could. He tried to find relief in the familiarity of it, but he didn’t feel much of anything. Something ached in his chest, but it felt far away, like a lost wreck in the bottom of the ocean. Rhys looked at him now and then, but never for very long.

It was not unlike the way Rhys had treated him months earlier, when Rhys had decided that their relationship was inappropriate, that it was something that needed to be fixed. Rhys smiled at him and filled the air between them with his pretty voice, but there was no substance behind any of it. Each sentence was a wave, pushing Tim further and further out to sea.

It would be ridiculous to feel abandoned. Tim drank his wine and tried very hard not to.

A few paparazzi flashed their cameras at them as they exited. Tim blinked away the shadows it burned into his retinas but did his best to keep his eyes open. He put his hand on the small of Rhys’ back as he guided him into the back seat of his car, operating purely on muscle memory.

The radio played as they crawled through the busy streets. The downtown was more colourful than ever, and the blue-white energy efficient lights gleamed off of holiday decorations. Rhys checked his phone while Tim stared into the window display of a fashionable department store, waiting for the lights to change. Faceless mannequins with smooth pink and lime green limbs posed in their thousand dollar fineries, among silver and gold painted plastic trees and shredded paper snow.

Rhys held up his screen, nearly bouncing in his seat. “We were seen,” he said. “Atlas stock is up again.”

The lights turned green. The car drove on.

Tim walked Rhys into his building, past the Atlas guards still posted for their CEO’s safety, into the elevator, and rode all the way to the top in silence. Rhys tapped at his phone, his brow furrowed, the entire time.

“Alright,” Rhys said, and Tim couldn’t tell if he’d made a decision or if he was talking to something he’d seen on his screen. “Alright,” he said again.

The elevator decelerated to a smooth stop. The doors slid open, allowing fresh air to enter the car. Tim breathed deep. The entrance to Rhys’ apartment smelled clean, like a nice clothing store. Rhys straightened his jacket as he stepped into his entry way. He turned to face Tim, smiling once more.

“I had a good time tonight, Tim,” he said brightly. “You did an excellent job in there. Very convincing.”

“Right,” Tim said.

“It was a big help. I really—“ For the first time since they kissed, a hairline crack appeared in Rhys’ gilt finish. “I really appreciate what you’re doing for me. I know it’s a big ask, and I just wanted to express my appreciation. For you. And what you’re doing.” He smiled again. Tim followed the curve of his lips, feeling helpless.

“You know…” Rhys began, his gaze flicking down Tim’s mouth. “If we really want to keep the act up, you should probably stay the night. Don’t you think?” He raised his eyebrows. Like it was a joke.

“Goodnight, Rhys,” Tim said, reaching for the button. Rhys smiled and turned away before the elevator doors closed.

The air in Tim’s apartment was warm and it smelled like cats. From the entry way, Tim could see two thirds of the space he lived in. Tim stared down at his brown mackerel tabbies as they wound their way between his legs and tried to imagine them in Rhys’ apartment.

Tim leaned against the wall, put his hand over his eyes. Stupid. He’d eaten an entire meal and he could still taste Rhys on his lips. _Stupid_. He was going to end up hurting himself. He was already too late.

This was Rhys’ world. Treating reality like a play he’d been cast into, finding the right arrangement of features to create a mask, using enough words to pillow himself from the rest of the world. Rhys could do it all. He could disappear into the role. Maybe he’d been doing it this whole time. Maybe Tim was never as clever or insightful as he believed himself to be.

Tim thought about all the times Rhys had come into work with his hair in disarray, or with circles under his eyes. All the times he’d poked through cartons of greasy take-out from The Pearl Garden, his mouth twisting at whatever joke Tim had just told. Working late, even when his eyelids drooped and his shoulders curved, his million dollar posture falling apart piece by piece, until Tim found excuses to gather him up and take him home. His skin pale and clammy with illness, his expression glazed with fever, petulantly demanding Tim give up his day to tend to him.

And Tim had done it. Not because he was a push-over—alright, maybe a little because he was a push-over—but because he thought he could see the real reason behind the request. Because Rhys had felt rotten and Tim had thought he was the only person Rhys could rely on. The only person he wanted. It’d felt real at the time.

It hurt, just how badly Tim needed to feel wanted. He wondered if it’d been obvious. If Rhys had always known just how to play him.

* * *

Tim wasn’t always a coward, although he’d lived the most tender years of his life in the grip of fear.

There was a time when he’d been quite brave, although the bravery had been born not of arrogance but of a bone-deep dissatisfaction with himself, with his life, with the world and everything in it. Nothing seemed good or decent. He developed a sense of nihilism that made him feel worldly, as if he’d lived twice the amount of anyone else his age, even though he’d barely lived at all. He believed his miserable upbringing had given him an insight that no one else had. His grandmother and his brother had taught him hard lessons, but learning hadn’t made him wise.

Tim used to be reckless. When his grandmother died at last, Tim felt as if a heavy weight had been removed from his chest, allowing him to breathe for the first time. He took in as much air as he could, reveling in the freedom of it, too young and dumb-struck by his luck to realise that she’d put bands on him that he would never find the keys for.

Jack’s genius was discovered when they were seventeen, not long after she died. Under the guidance of their foster father and with the assistance of his university-level text books, Jack finally received the opportunities owed to him. Without their grandmother to rage against, he found a new outlet for his energy. He went from barely passing in their school to pulling A’s in every STEM class. It changed the way their teachers looked at him. It changed the way Jack talked about his future. Like he had one.

Their foster father, Mr. Blake, made Jack submit papers to academic magazines, enter his designs and blueprints into international engineering contests. He won. He kept on winning.

The acceptance letters came pouring in. Full rides, full scholarships, the works. M.I.T. came with an invitation to explore their campus and to meet with their student representatives, with their faculty at a mixer. Jack had to buy a tie. Mr. Blake would drive him down. They would stay the weekend.

“It’ll only be for a few days,” Jack had said, very carefully not looking at Tim as he stuffed clothing into a duffle bag.

Tim didn’t reply. He hadn’t even asked.

Jack never really did come home, although he returned to the Blakes’ suburban home with a new hoodie, a phone filled with new contacts, and the lights of his future shining in his eyes. He stayed another month at the Blakes’ home and spent most of his time shut up in Mr. Blake’s study, calling him ‘Jeffrey’, smoking cigars and drinking decent scotch, late into the night.

Tim could remember feeling brave enough to approach the shut up office, standing carefully to the side so as not to create a break in the light under the door. He stood in his socks and his sweatpants and listened to the murmur of his brother’s voice, quiet and thoughtful in a way Tim had never, ever heard him before.

He had his fist raised as if he were about to start knocking, because why shouldn’t he be invited in? This was Jack. This was the one person in the world who knew Tim inside and out, better than anyone ever could. Who’d seen the ugliest parts of him, who’d lived through the slammed doors, and the nights without dinner, and the belts wound round an old woman’s meaty fist. This was the boy who would hold Tim tight, who would catch his eye across the room as if inviting him into a private joke. They were a unit. A matched pair. They would spend their lives together. Jack would get into trouble and Tim would get him out. This was _Jack_.

Who was on the other side of the door, speaking in a voice Tim could barely recognize, already slipping away without a backwards glance. Like it was easy.

Like maybe he never really needed Tim in the first place, and he was only just now figuring it out.

When Jack left in the summer, only a few weeks shy of their 18th birthday, aiming to get there early to start on his special projects, Tim felt suddenly very brave.

Mr. and Mrs. Blake fed him spaghetti and meatballs (Jack’s favourite) the night Jack left for M.I.T. and had a serious discussion with him regarding his future, and the state of his finances. The inheritance wasn’t much, but it would be enough to get him on his feet for a few months while he tried to find a job.

“Or there’s always community college,” Mr. Blake said. He knew better than to mention university. It was never a question whether or not Tim would follow Jack to post-secondary glory. Mr. Blake had seen Tim’s grades. “It’s always an option. But you’ll still need a job.”

Tim nodded, chewed his food. He said little, but neither of them seemed to notice.

Mrs. Blake took him apartment hunting the next day. She encouraged him to take a room in a shared house, with three other young men. She said he would find support here. Structure.

Tim lied to her kind face and told her that he’d applied for it and been accepted. He rented a cheap truck and loaded five boxes of his things and the mattress the Blakes were going to let him keep. They watched him back out of the driveway but were gone as soon as his tires hit the street. He drove to the bachelor apartment he’d rented on the other side of town.

If any of the people Tim had associated with before tried to find him, they would have no luck. Tim didn’t tell anyone his new address, or his new phone number. Well. He told Jack.

He told Jack over text. And Jack took an entire day to reply. It was the longest they had ever gone… Ah. It didn’t matter.

Without Jack in his life, Tim became very brave indeed. He went down the list of vices and ticked off every one. He found a crowd of people who possessed his same hollow-chest sense of fearlessness, people with smiles like the blades of shovels, every one of them ready to help him dig.

Sierra was the first girl he saw completely naked. She thought his inexperience was charming, and said so, and told him that she could make him into a great lover. She said it with a straight face, with the same prophetic sense of seriousness that she said everything, and Tim was ready to believe every word.

She was lovely, and she needed Tim like she needed air to breathe. She felt lonely without him. She texted him all day. If he took too long to reply she would call him up in tears. She demanded to see his phone every day, carefully went over all his contacts and all his correspondences. If she so much as saw a feminine sounding name, she would start screaming.

“I love you so much.” She sobbed as she spoke, little hiccups bubbling between syllables, fat tears dripping off her chin. He blew a chunk of his savings, buying her some gaudy ring from the home shopping network of all places.

Two weeks later, he found out she was fucking her ex-boyfriend. The one with the kid from another relationship.

After Sierra, there was Thom, who seemed almost too respectable to be in their crowd. He wore polo shirts instead of denim jackets, and clean slacks. He was a former college football player. He was fit and handsome. He had straight white teeth. He liked Tim from the moment he laid eyes on him, or so he said. He was ten years older than Tim, but Tim was so mature that it hardly mattered.

Thom took Tim out to sit-down places, where someone would take Tim’s order for a change. He made jokes about their alliterative names. He made Tim pose for selfies and posted them all on his Instagram account. He told Tim how good he looked, every time. They watched HBO shows together, made dinner together. When Thom asked Tim to move in only one month into their relationship, it just felt right. Tim felt very brave indeed.

Thom was good. He was responsible, and kind, and funny and sweet. Tim had never loved anyone like him. He’d never felt that way about anyone before. Easy to be so dazzled by the shine of Thom’s poster-boy smile and miss the jaws of the trap closing on him until he could feel the teeth against his neck.

Things with Thom ended badly. Changed locks, new phone, restraining order. Tim doesn’t like to think about it.

There were others, of course, but those two were his first loves and the worst for it. Tim stuck to his favourite bar like he’d been murdered there a hundred years before and his restless soul was bound to it.

He met people who took him home, called him handsome, called him good. Every time he told himself he would be strong enough to resist, that this time he would be smart with his heart, he would only stay for the night and ask for nothing else, want for nothing else.

But all they had to do was smile at him and crook their little finger and he would trip over himself running to them. Every time someone let him spend the night, called him the next day, and again the same day, and a third time, and on and on, Tim would tell himself that it was different. That this person moved quickly because they liked him so much. They called him so often because they wanted to hear his voice. Because they needed him.

Athena was the one who found him at that bar. She stopped him from following an old, bad ex to his car. She was a recruitment officer. She gave him her card, and seemed like she wasn’t happy to do it.

Tim stayed in the country long enough to attend Jack’s graduation, because he really was proud of his brother. He tried to explain his decision to enlist to Jack, but that was always a mistake; assuming Jack was interested in anything but the sound of his own voice, his own anger, all the wrongs people committed against him.

After—and there was a lot of after—Tim grew into his solitude. Athena kept him from crawling into the bottle, or into anything worse, and the job kept him from throwing his heart around. Tim learned to be alone. The parts of him that reached for others grew weak inside of him. Dried up like something beautiful pulled from the ocean floor, left to bake in the sun.

Tim told himself that it was fine. He didn’t need other people. It was safer without them. He was safer, _smarter_ , on his own.

Is there anyone dumber than a man in love?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr, lads: nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hyperion throws a party and Rhys and Tim are invited. What could possibly go wrong????

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late post, gang. I forgot about to post this morning. It's been that kind of week.

Tim arrived to work the next morning with a dry mouth and a head that felt like an abandoned storefront, cleared out so quickly that people could still see the twisted wires poking from the floor and the inverse-shadowed outlines of removed fixtures. His eyes felt like dusty windows.

There were a few paparazzi skulking to the side of the entrance. They snapped a few photos, possibly just for the look of the thing, but no one approached him. Tim couldn’t imagine they needed another 30 pictures of him walking into a building. But then, who was he to tell anyone how to do their job?

Rhys was in his office, seated behind his desk with the early-winter dawn lightening the sky out of the windows behind him. To Tim’s surprise, however, Rhys was not alone. A round woman with a bob haircut and an expensive-looking suit sat on Tim’s chair, pulled up behind Rhys’ desk.

“Oops!” she said, shifting as if she were about to rise to her feet. “Am I in your seat?”

“You are,” Tim said as he set a thermos of coffee on Rhys’ desk. She was, he realised with an ugly twinge, quite good looking.

Her radiant smile faded by a few degrees. “Oh. Sorry. Should I—?” She looked at Rhys.

“Tim, this is Kalandra, my personal shopper,” Rhys said, his gaze fixed on his screens.

“You can call me Personal Santa,” she said with a little wave. Good make-up too, Tim noticed.

“She very generously agreed to come in extra early,” Rhys went on, looking up with a brief smile. “We’re almost done in here. Can you give us ten minutes?”

Rhys barely looked at him. His gaze skated over his features and settled on something over Tim’s shoulder. His voice was pleasant enough, but his words possessed little warmth. Tim nodded.

“Good,” Rhys said. “We can have breakfast when you return.”

Just like that, Tim was dismissed. He returned to the antechamber outside of Rhys’ office with his coffee in hand and wondered what he was supposed to do now. He sat down on the leather couch stationed opposite Todd’s desk, pulled out his phone, and started on his emails.

Ten minutes crawled past with nothing from the other side of the sealed doors. Tim couldn’t even eavesdrop—not that he would. He sipped his coffee and bounced his knee and tried not to think of anything except for the contents of his screen.

Todd arrived at his usual time: ten minutes before he was meant to start. He was dressed in grey, although someone must’ve forwarded him an article on statement pieces, because he offset his dreary suit with a tie the coloured gradient of a sunset. He was just as slim as Rhys, although not quite as tall, and he styled his blond hair back and swept away from his face, just as Rhys did. The flat, smooth texture of his hair saved them both from the indignity of a complete copy-cat. Whereas Rhys’ naturally thick, wavy hair gave his style some interesting texture, Todd’s hair lay like a yellow lemon skin on top of his skull.

“Oh,” Todd said, in the tone of someone discovering a dead raccoon in their bathtub. His gaze flicked to the shut door. “Is that meeting still happening?”

“Fraid so. They sent me to the kids’ table ‘til they’re done,” Tim said as he pressed down too hard on the ‘send’ button.

Todd harrumphed, like a character in a cartoon strip. Tim closed his eyes so he could roll them in peace.

Todd took his post behind his desk and fired up his work station and computer. Tim returned his attention to his phone. They sat in tense silence, each pretending the other didn’t exist, until the elevator chimed a new arrival and the mail person arrived with her cart.

“Bit a haul today, eh, Todd? I had to make an extra trip from the loading dock.” she said. “And it’s barely December!”

Todd shook his head. “They start earlier every year.”

Tim stared. The mail cart was loaded high with shiny, colourful packages. Snowmen grinned from blue and white paper, and gingerbread men waved from their green and red wrapping. Nearly every package was topped with a towering, glittering bow in shades of wealth.

The mail person, whose name Tim had never learned, stood back on her heels and wiped her forehead down with her sleeve. She grinned when she caught Tim’s eye.

“Gifts for the boss,” she explained.

“Those are gifts… for Rhys?” Tim asked. The largest one looked big enough to hold a stand mixer.

“Gifts from his friends, colleagues, et cetera,” Todd said as Tim stood up, drawn like a magpie to the cart by the allure of shiny wrapped packages. “Mostly they come from our vendors, or people who want to become our vendors. Or from our contemporaries in other companies. A show of friendliness in the midst of business, that sort of thing.”

Tim selected a box the size of his head as Todd spoke. “Why?” he asked, testing its heft in his hands. It was heavy, he noted with some unease.

Todd looked at him as if he’d beamed in from the idiot dimension. “To be nice,” he said.

“ _Why_?” How much did a human head weigh? Tim set the box down carefully.

 “Because,” Todd said, speaking slowly, “sometimes it is beneficial to give gifts to your competitors and contemporaries to keep your presence prominent in their minds. This is called ‘networking’.” He enunciated the final word like a muppet teaching children the alphabet.

Any other day, Tim might’ve found Todd’s antics annoying, but there wasn’t room in his empty head to accommodate any kind of feeling for someone like Todd. He poked through the pile.

“What kind of things does he get?” Tim asked.

Todd waved his hand. “Oh, all sorts of things. Cufflinks, tie pins, watches, ties, suits, gift passes to fine restaurants, tickets to shows, gift passes to private resorts, small appliances. I think last year one of our metallurgy vendors sent us a brand new set of tires.” He gave a very business-like chortle.

One was a more traditional gift basket, wrapped in clear plastic with a red bow. Tim made a pleased noise—Rhys always split the baskets with him—and hauled it from the cart. It was also quite heavy, and it landed with a thump on Todd’s desk.

“I’ll leave this with you both, then?” the mail person asked.

Todd sighed. “Yes, you might as well. Thank you, Peg.”

“Yeah, thanks, Peg,” Tim said as he peered through the plastic wrapping. It looked like a basket of savory treats. Spice rubs for tofu and butternut squash, various types of mustard, boxes of heirloom grain crackers, rye and kettle chips, and pretzels.

“I’m fairly certain that card doesn’t have your name on it,” Todd said as Tim tugged the ribbon loose.

“Security check,” Tim said as he pulled a tub of pepper jelly free from the curled bits of paper. “Damn, it’s spicy too. This is nice stuff.”

“They always send nice things,” Todd said with a barely concealed sneer. “Them and all the rest. Every year is the same. For the entire month of December, Mister Griffiths-Whyte’s office is overrun with packages, gift baskets, envelopes… Look at this.” Todd lifted the head box Tim had been examining earlier. “Do you know how much this probably cost? Thousands.” He let it drop onto his desk with a stylus-rattling thump. “And how often will Mister Griffiths-Whyte use it? He’ll look at it once, maybe, and then donate it.”

“What is it?” Tim asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Todd said. “It could be a fourteen carat diamond the size of a fist and it wouldn’t matter. What use does a billionaire have with gifts?” He waved his hands dismissively at the pile. “They waste their time every year with this junk. Their money would be better spent on creating better products. Offering Atlas some measure of competition. _That’d_ be a real gift.”

Tim stared down at the basket. Todd sniffed and smoothed an errant strand back into its style.

“Anyway,” he said, his voice even once more. “That’s just what I think.”

Tim’s gaze slid over to the shining hoard. Something panged in his chest, like a pebble bouncing down a well.

“Do you ever get him a gift?” Tim asked as Todd returned to his seat.

“Every day,” he said as he called up his work screens. “I deliver an excellent performance, going above and beyond his expectations. Why?” He looked at Tim from the sides of his eyes. “Were you thinking of getting him something? Because if you are, take my advice. Save yourself the money and effort and just put in a decent day’s work.”

Tim glared at the side of Todd’s shiny head, contemplating the weight of the pepper jelly in his hand. The momentary satisfaction probably wouldn’t be worth the $25 jar. He set it down among the rest of the goodies.

He glanced to the shut doors. “But Rhys gets them gifts in return, doesn’t he? That’s what this personal shopper business is about, right?”

“Yes, Timothy, yes it is,” Todd said, exasperated. “Again, that’s the networking I mentioned earlier. If you’d like I can provide you with a dictionary and you can look up the meaning.”

“No thanks,” Tim said absently, because he knew Todd’s type and he knew that it would get under his skin better than any clever retort ever could.

Todd huffed. “It isn’t just his business colleagues,” he went on reluctantly. “He’ll give his employees gifts as well.”

“Like, a bonus?”

“In addition to a bonus, if you work with him directly,” Todd said.

“He gives you something?” Tim asked, now genuinely curious.

“Every year,” Todd said smugly. “Look.” He held up his wrist, letting the cuff of his suit jacket fall back. A massive silver watch with a golden face caught the light.

“Oh. A watch,” Tim said.

Todd’s smile melted like ice cream on a hot day. “It’s a _Piguet_. Greatest watch brand in the world?” He sniffed. “I suppose you’ve never heard of it.”

“Nope,” Tim agreed. “I just use my phone to tell time.”

“Mister Griffiths-Whyte gifts me with a new Piguet every year. The latest model, usually in the Royal Oak line,” he added, as if that might mean something to Tim.

“Every year, huh.” Tim scratched under his chin, feeling his post-shave lotion against his fingers. “Do you like it?”

“Of course I do,” Todd said with a scoff. “It’s a gift from Mister Griffiths-Whyte. It’s special.”

“What do you do with your old watches?”

“I keep them,” Todd said, favouring Tim with another one of his looks. His eyes narrowed. “Why?” he asked.

Tim hummed. “Just seems a little impersonal, you know? Like the male equivalent of getting a black leather purse. Like he couldn’t think of anything better.”

“I don’t believe that’s the case,” Todd said with frost in his voice. “ _Some_ of us actually care about their appearance and enjoy the finer things in life.”

Tim shrugged and smiled, like he was humouring Todd.

It had the intended effect. Todd grit his teeth and, for a moment, Tim wondered if he would actually try to take a swing at him. But the moment passed and Todd closed his eyes, let out a quiet breath, and turned pointedly back to his work. Tim hid a smile.

He returned to the couch, set the basket in between his legs on the floor, and picked up his phone. He opened his emails, found the most difficult one, and dove in. He did not think about anything else. He very carefully did not think about the thing still sitting on his kitchen table.

* * *

Rhys swiveled back and forth in his chair while Kalandra read down the list they’d assembled together.

“For Marcus, the Burberry trench in navy. For Caryl, the Coach Swagger 27 bag with tea rose tooling in black. For Miqa, the Alexander McQueen skull patterned shawl in peach and white with diamond clip. For Yvette, the Jose & Maria Barrera Pavé crystal flower earrings with the matching floral garland statement necklace. For Vaughn—“ she hesitated for the barest of moments, a crease appearing on the bridge of her nose. “—an X Box One X Two, with copy of Destiny 4.” 

Rhys pumped his fist.

“For your mother, you’re hiring out the French Laundry for a private dinner for her and her friends, with personal performance by popular singer, TBA,” she finished.

Rhys collapsed back in his seat, releasing a great gust of breath, like he’d just run a gauntlet. “Perfect. That’s everyone, right Kalandra? Plus your own gift, whatever you pick?”

Kalandra stared at him. The light from her tablet cast her features in appealing blue and white light. “Well. No? There’s still one left on your list,” she said. When Rhys didn’t immediately reply, she tilted her head towards the door and raised her eyebrows. “You know? Your boy?”

Rhys rubbed at his eyes and sighed.

“That was him earlier, wasn’t it?” Kalandra asked. “He so cute in person. I love his freckles. I bet something in green would look good on him.”

“Black too,” Rhys muttered.

“Oh yes, how could I forget?” Kalandra’s dark eyes gleamed. “I saw him in that patterned suit jacket last night. Was that Thuy’s work?” She clicked her teeth at Rhys’ nod. “I love her stuff. She’s an artist. So, do you want to commission her to get him into something bespoke?”

Rhys did. He wanted to take Tim back to his tailor’s and let him select the fabrics he liked. He wanted to buy him seven suits, one for each day of the week, with jackets and shirts and ties he could mix and match. After seeing just how good Tim had looked in something properly tailored to his frame last night he wanted to replace Tim’s entire wardrobe. Seeing Tim come into work in one of his boxy, department store, black suits made Rhys incredibly sad now.

“I don’t know,” Rhys lied.

The trouble was, he didn’t know if that was what Tim wanted. Rhys wasn’t sure Tim would feel comfortable tossing his entire closet into the trash, even if that was where it belonged. Dressing him up for Rhys’ enjoyment didn’t feel like much of a gift for Tim. For the first time in Rhys’ life, that gave him pause.

Kalandra tapped her manicured nail onto the surface of her screen. “Do you have an idea what you’d like to get him?” she asked.

Of course he had. Rhys swallowed. He’d been thinking about it since he booked this meeting with Kalandra two weeks ago. He’d been thinking about it since before then, since he spotted the first pumpkin in someone’s window back in October. He thought about it every time Tim arrived to work carrying Rhys’ breakfast order. Every time he stood behind Rhys for a meeting, opened a door for Rhys to pass through, sat down behind the wheel of Rhys’ car again and again, even after—

Rhys pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to halt the thought before it could start.

“Not a suit? Alright, that’s fine,” Kalandra went on smoothly. “A tie? Perhaps a tie pin?”

Rhys wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know. I always feel like a tie is a bit old fashioned, don’t you?”

“Maybe, but it’s a fantastic way to introduce colour and pattern to an outfit. And it’s serves as a nice leash.” Kalandra smiled.

Rhys ignored her. “No ties.”

“Then no tie pin, either. Alright. Does he wear jewellery at all? A ring might be nice,” she said.

“He doesn’t wear rings,” Rhys said. “I’ve never seen him in anything shiny.”

“He’d look good though,” Kalandra said, a little wistfully.

Rhys bit back a sigh. He liked Kalandra. She was an excellent personal shopper. She understood his style and the style of the familiar names on his yearly gift list, but sometimes she could be a little too personal and not enough shopper.

“He’d look good in anything,” Rhys said with a dismissive flick of his fingers. “He’s a clothes horse. But he’s also…” Rhys trailed off, uncertain of the correct word to summarize just how Tim was. Not shy, exactly, but not loud with his choices either. Rhys got the impression that Tim was fine with the way he dressed himself. It bothered Rhys, of course it did, but not enough to force a change on Tim.

“He’s also…?” Kalandra prompted, when Rhys took too long.

Rhys frowned. He felt strange. He didn’t quite know how to describe it. A warm feeling hovering somewhere above his stomach, not entirely pleasant.

“I don’t think suits or ties or jewellery is a good choice,” Rhys said at last.

“Alright.” Kalandra dragged her finger across her screen, scrolling down the list. “There’s always food. We could get him a paid dinner reservation at a nice restaurant?”

Something about the phrase ‘nice restaurant’ made Rhys’ fingers twitch. Memories of last night lurked in the darkness behind his eyes, in the corners Rhys had swept them in before he’d gone to bed. He refused to acknowledge them now.

“That’s a little basic, don’t you think?” Rhys asked, his voice oddly gruff. Kalandra raised an eyebrow. “Anyway, all of his favourite places aren’t the types to accept reservations.”

“We could hire the head chef of one of his favourite places to cook a private meal for two?” Kalandra suggested.

Rhys tried to picture it. Tim seated across from—someone. It didn’t matter who, of course. Just someone, a generic person, never mind anything else. Seated across from this generic individual, inside what could laughably be called the dining room in his apartment, with the chef of his favourite restaurant in Tim’s crammed kitchen. Tim making stilted conversation, nervously watching his kitchen. Rhys recalled how stiff Tim had been around the serving staff at his mother’s Thanksgiving. The awkward way he thanked each one with a smile that stretched his face like a grimace.

“Nnno,” Rhys decided. “No, I don’t think that would work, either. He gets flustered when he’s being waited on.”

“Hmm.” Kalandra scrolled for several seconds. No doubt Rhys’ last statement had crossed out a lot of the potential items on her list. “Okay. How about a vacation villa? No servants, just a private villa with a daily cleaning provided by an external staff. We could even find a place where he could go shopping for his own groceries, if that’s what he would prefer.”

Rhys swiveled his chair back and forth while he considered it. Tim alone—or maybe not, there was no reason why he would have to be alone—in a villa, surrounded by nature. Rhys saw a tropical landscape, palm fronds and giant flowers with colours like spilled paint, pink and blue and violet and orange, a riot of them across the vibrant green. The blue sky visible above the tree line.

Or maybe a private cottage, nestled somewhere in the north, on the lip of a lake. Tim seated on a dock with his slacks rolled up to his knees and a sweating can of beer in his hand. The lake so clear and still it looked like glass under his dangling feet. A verdant forest hugging the lake, blocking the sounds from the highway.

Or maybe an alpine getaway, with snow so white it looked blue in the shadows, so light it moved with the softest breath. Someplace where the sky turned gold when the sun set and the mountains turned lavender. Snow would cling to the branches of evergreen trees like second foliage. Tim could curl up in an arm chair by a crackling fire with a book to read. An older book, with a hard-cover and actual paper that smelled like dust trapped in warm, sunny places. His cats would be there too.

And Rhys would find them all on the couch, curled up under a blanket, maybe even asleep.

Rhys’ chair went still. He stared out of the window, where the sun had climbed over the small amount of horizon he could see between the buildings. The warmth in his stomach had somehow both flourished and soured, almost painful behind his ribs. He felt something like this before—all those weeks ago, in Moxxi’s office, when she asked him about his Sunday morning. Like nostalgia for something that hadn’t happened yet.

Tim’s mouth tasted a bit like butter; salty and a little sweet. Rhys brushed his fingers against the back of his head.

“No,” he said at last. “No, nothing like that.”

He felt disturbed at the possibility for reasons he didn’t want to think about. He pushed it all away, but the sensation of Tim’s lips on his would not go quietly into the recesses of Rhys’ mind.

“I’ll think of something,” he said before Kalandra could pull up new suggestions.

“I hope so,” Kalandra said lightly as she zipped her tablet into its soft pink case. “He’s a catch. I wish my boyfriend was ready and willing to take a bullet for me.”

That image did not help the disturbance Rhys was desperately trying to ignore. He thanked her for her work and sent her on her way.

Rhys expected Tim to return moments after Kalandra’s departure, but he didn’t. Rhys watched the doors with a barely concealed frown. He thought he’d heard Kalandra’s voice before they swung shut. He supposed she was talking to Tim.

Rhys sat back. Tim was a ‘catch’, was he? He called his screens up from where they’d lain dormant. He supposed it was true. And, if he were being honest, he’d known it for a long time. Tim was handsome, which counted for a lot. He was also unflinchingly loyal, dedicated, intelligent and thorough. Qualities that made him an excellent body guard, and personal assistant.

He was funny, too. Cautious and careful, like a cat exploring a new home. Thoughtful and considerate. Not easily ruffled. Patient. Stubborn which drove Rhys insane, but not… not in a bad way. Exactly.

Rhys had been thinking about Tim’s gift. He really did have a few ideas in mind, ideas he’d gotten after noticing the way Tim tugged on his coat collar to conceal his neck and chin. The way he jammed his hands into his pockets against the cold. Watching his ears turn pink and then red. Stupid ideas, but ones Rhys returned to almost every time he was home with nothing better to do than to sit in front of a television screen with a set of needles in his hands.

Stupid. Rhys was worth more than several small countries. He could get Tim a real gift.

Rhys glanced at the doors. He pursed his lips and forced his attention back to his work.

* * *

Tim pushed his way back into their office with Todd on his heels. He picked up his pace and brushed past Tim, knocking lightly into his shoulder, which was kind of adorable. Tim retreated to the sideboard where he’d left their breakfast.

Todd stood at Rhys’ desk, rigid as a toy soldier, diligently delivering message after message, flicking blue squares from his tablet device onto Rhys’ work station. Tim kept half an ear open as Todd ran down the latest from their competitors.

“Maliwan’s sent us another message,” Todd relayed, sounding pleased. “They’ve agreed to your changes on page 31, article 14.2, although they have dug in their heels about article 14.3.”

“They’ll come around,” Rhys said. “After last night, they’ve gotta be feeling the pressure.”

Tim’s fingers trembled as he pushed Rhys’ fried egg, tomato, basil and mozzarella sandwich onto his plate.

“They’ve requested a personal meeting with you to go over the specifics,” Todd continued.

“Ha. Now they’re asking for face-time?” Rhys sounded smug. Tim could picture him in his chair, sitting back with his fingers steepled over his chest, swiveling back and forth the way he always did when he was gloating. “Tell them I’m very busy at the moment, but I’d be happy to send a representative. They’re starting to really sweat, aren’t they? What do you think, Tim?” he asked as Tim placed his breakfast onto his desk, his hand passing through the hovering screens.

Tim pressed his lips together and tried to school his features. He didn’t like to think about Maliwan and DAHL, and their sudden desperation to make nice with Atlas. He’d be happy if he never had to hear their names ever again.

Rhys’ smile edged away from the rest of his expression when Tim returned to his desk.

Todd cleared his throat. “Sir, you’ve received an invitation to another holiday party,” he said. “This one’s going to be in the Shangri-La Hotel. They’ve rented out an entire floor, private rooms included, apparently.” He flicked his fingers across his screen. A blue and yellow square fell to Rhys’ desk like a snow flake on the wind.

Rhys lazily reached out with his stylus, halting its progress. “Another one, huh. I don’t know why they try every year to pull me into these events. If I wanted to drink mid-shelf wine and eat canapes, I could do so at home. Although,” he went on, a little thoughtfully as he scanned the invite, “I will give whoever this is some credit. The Shrangi-La’s a nice place. Whoever set this up is definitely…”

Tim looked up. Rhys rubbed his lips as he read. A small line appeared between his brows.

“A nice place, but very flashy,” Todd said, picking up the conversational slack without needing to be asked. “What else can you expect from Hyperion?”

Tim stopped breathing.

“That’s true,” Rhys said. He flicked the invite over to examine the other side.

“Wait.” Tim half-rose from his desk, pulling Todd’s attention. “Did you say ‘Hyperion’?”

“I did,” Todd said, with a sneer. “You seem surprised. Your brother didn’t tell you? I assumed this invite was because of you.”

It probably was. Tim felt sweat prickle under his collar.

“Jack wrote a note,” Rhys said, his eyebrows high. “He’s asking me, personally, to come out. That’s… new.” His eyes narrowed.

“You aren’t really considering it, are you?” Tim asked.

Rhys spared him a glance. He picked up his sandwich and took a bite. Tim ground his teeth and sank back into his chair, waiting for Rhys to finish.

“Yeah, I think I am,” Rhys said.

“You are?” Todd asked.

“That,” Tim said, voice barely controlled, “is a terrible idea.”

Rhys scoffed. He took another bite and once again forced Tim to wait on his reply.

“I’m not afraid of Jack,” Rhys said, before delicately licking a spot of tomato juice from his thumb. “I had a feeling something like this was coming. He’d been too quiet over this whole… situation between us.”

He had been, something that occurred to Tim almost every night, just as he was about to drift off. It always sent a jolt of pure adrenaline to his system, ensuring another twenty minutes of wakefulness.

“And that doesn’t worry you?” Tim asked.

Rhys dabbed at his mouth with his linen napkin. “I told you, Jack doesn’t scare me. I’ll go to his little party. I’ll even bring a plus one.” He aimed a grin at Tim’s paling face. “What do you think, Tim? How do you feel about being my arm candy for another night?”

Like taking a flying leap out the window.

“You understand that this is a trap, right?” Tim said. “I know my brother. He didn’t invite you out of the goodness of his heart—“ Lord knew Jack didn’t have any room in that shriveled organ for more than two or three people. “—he did it because he’s got something planned for you. And he knows you’ll be too arrogant to say no.”

Rhys quirked a brow. “I don’t know how I feel about ‘arrogant’. Is it really arrogance if I happen to be that amazing?” he asked, spreading his hands.

“It isn’t,” Todd said quickly, before Tim could reply.

“This isn’t smart, Rhys,” Tim said.

Rhys lowered his hands, his smile fading. “You need to relax,” he said. “Jack isn’t going to hurt me. We’ll be in front of hundreds of his toadies. He won’t try anything.”

Tim’s jaw ached. He clamped down hard on the desire to march over to Rhys’ desk, pick him up by his collar and give the scrawny bastard a good shake until he listened.

“Yes, he will,” Tim said. “He definitely will. He loves humiliating people in public. He practically built an empire on it, Rhys.”

Rhys rolled his eyes. “Alright, let me rephrase that. Jack won’t try anything that I can’t handle. Come on, Tim. You’re treating me like I’m new to this game. Jack’s a thug. I know how to handle him.”

And Tim knew that Jack’s road to success was littered with the bodies of the people who took him for nothing more than a thug.

“Anyway, you’ll be there,” Rhys said. “You’ll keep me safe, I’m sure.”

Tim closed his mouth. He looked down at his hands. He could feel the headache already building at his temples. The weight of Rhys’ confidence settled over him like a blanket.

“I think this is a terrible idea,” Tim said. “I just want that on the record.”

“Your opinion is noted, Tim,” Rhys said, already returning to his work.

* * *

Tim spent the week before the party campaigning against Rhys’ attendance. He tried cajoling, he tried reasoning (always a mistake), he tried diagrams and spreadsheets. He tried everything short of a puppet show, but nothing would penetrate Rhys’ foot-thick aura of arrogance.

“Jack doesn’t scare me,” was all he got, again and again.

The terrible thing was that Tim’s attendance was never in question. If Rhys was going, then Tim was going. Everyone knew it.

Jack would know it. Tim tried messaging his brother, but Jack had become suddenly difficult to reach.

Tim left Jack several messages, but they all went unanswered. It was unnerving, and it was depressingly familiar. Tim half expected to wake up in the shitty bachelor apartment he’d rented at 18 to find Jack had left him a single voice mail with what sounded like a party happening over his shoulder, left at a time when he knew Tim would be asleep.

But it wasn’t like M.I.T.. Tim knew that Jack would never abandon him like that again. Which meant that he was almost certainly planning something.

He and Rhys played pretend all the while. They didn’t have another date—which Tim couldn’t decide how to feel about—but they did get lunch together at an upscale Vietnamese place on the way back from a bootlicking meeting from DAHL. Rhys had been particularly smug and in the mood to celebrate. If they hadn’t been using the nice metal ones, Tim would’ve thrown a chopstick at Rhys’ stupid face.

Smug was the order of the week for Rhys. Every time DAHL and Maliwan sent another message, or a gift, Rhys would crow about it to Todd and Tim. Todd was always ready to celebrate, in his stiff, professional way. He would look at Rhys like a peasant gazing upon a king seated on a golden throne and it took everything in Tim not to throw up into his trash bin.

Tim felt disconnected from himself. He couldn’t say why hearing about Atlas’ newfound success bothered him so much. The pleased look on Rhys’ face, half-way between punchable self-assurance and adorable giddiness—made Tim feel strange. Used.

He knew that it was his fault. That, in an indirect way, he was the reason for Rhys’ happiness, and part of him—a desperate, old and difficult to ignore part—felt good about it. Satisfaction that seeped down into the core of him, right into his bones. Part of him had wanted to put that smile on Rhys’ face since he began this job. But now that he’d done it, it didn’t feel right.

Rhys needed him, but it wasn’t really about Tim at all. Tim Lawrence was a nobody. It was the name that Rhys needed. It was the tie to Hyperion. To Jack.

It was so depressingly familiar. Rhys wasn’t the first person to use Tim like this. Loads of Jack’s friends in high school, or the wannabes that hung at the fringes, would come to Tim, look at him like a stepping stone. And Tim, stupid and hormonal (and lonely), would let them walk all over him. He’d really thought those days were behind him.

Tim hated feeling so young. Every now and then his lips would tingle, a cruel and rather adolescent reminder. No matter how hard he tried to put it behind him, part of him still lived in that moment in the restaurant, with Rhys’ hair between his fingers, Rhys’ hand squeezing his arm, and Rhys’ lips…

It was like being sixteen. Tim hated it.

The night of the party, Tim returned home from work to find Thuy’s delivery person waiting for him in his building’s entrance.

“Hi there,” she said with a tight-lipped smile and thrust a tablet at him for his signature. “I’ve been asked to tell you that you’re supposed to be gentle with the suit. Mrs. Huang said no red wine for you tonight.”

Tim gave a laugh he barely heard. He signed, tipped her, and took the garment bag.

Tim’s head pounded as he tried to get himself in order. He took a brisk shower, shaved a day’s worth of stubble away, tweezed his eyebrows, washed his face, and found excuses to linger in the washroom in front of his mirror. His fingers were steady as he worked his post-shave moisturizer onto his cheeks, neck and chin, but he could feel his thumping pulse under his skin. In a few short hours, he would see Rhys again. And Jack. The cap clattered against the tub as Tim tried to screw it shut again.

The trouble was that he couldn’t even lie to himself. He couldn’t tell himself that it would be fine, because he was too smart for those kinds of platitudes.

Maliwan had sent a gift basket. This one filled with chocolates, pralines, caramels, and other sweets. They’d come in red and golden boxes, shaped like hearts and bells. It came with a card addressed to both of them. Rhys had been so pleased with himself. He’d offered Tim a box of dark chocolate mint; Tim’s favourite.

Tim plugged in his dryer and let the scream of hot air fill his head. Now and then he would catch sight of the garment bag’s reflection from where it hung on the back of his bedroom door in the fog-frosted mirror. Every time it sent a small jolt of adrenaline down Tim’s spine, like a stranger had walked into his apartment.

He drew the zipper down, splitting the bag open down the centre. Inside was another black suit.

It was cut to Tim’s frame just as the previous one had been; slim without being restrictive on his shoulders and chest. The material was black and smooth as seal skin, almost slippery under his fingers. His lapels were made from shinier fabric and looked almost a deep, bottle green when the light hit it. They’d given him a tie this time, evergreen with a yellow-gold micro-pattern, a stark contrast to his crisp, grey shirt. He clipped his cuffs with the malachite and yellow-gold links he’d found in a small pouch pinned to the inside of the jacket.

He examined his reflection. The suit looked good. He adjusted his cuffs and tried not to feel like a mutt who’d been dressed in a gem-encrusted collar. His stomach twisted on itself. He could still hear the roar of his hair dryer between his ears.

He styled his hair carefully.  He applied his base and concealer with steady hands. He took a breath.

“Whatever happens next will just have to happen,” he mumbled to his reflection. “Jack’s come for you like this before and you’ve always made it out.”

Admittedly, those were different times, when they had both been kids. When Tim would find someone he liked, and Jack would become judgmental, possessive, jealous. Tim would try to get close, and Jack would force his way between them. Usually all it would take was a smile, a c’mere tilt of his head, and maybe a wink. It was wretched, just how easily Jack could lure someone away from Tim.

He could still remember how it’d been when they were both sixteen, and Tim had walked in on Jack and the girl from Tim’s modern literature class. The way she’d run past Tim with tears in her eyes, her voice squeaking out an apology.

 “It’ll be f… You’ll survive this,” Tim said to himself, in the present.

And Jack had stood up. He’d wiped the strawberry scented pink lipstick from his mouth, clapped Tim on the shoulder, leaned in close and said, “She’s trash, Tim.”

What he meant was, _Do you see how easy it was? How little you meant to her? They’re all like this. How many times do I have to show you?_

What Tim heard was, _It’s always me they want. Haven’t you figured that out? How many times do I have to show you?_

That was a different time. A hundred years ago. Jack’s methods had evolved.

Tim retreated to the kitchen where a bottle of decent bourbon waited for him on the counter.

Rhys arrived two drinks later, at 8pm on the dot. He wore a bit of a sneer on his face when Tim opened the door, but it vanished quickly when he laid eyes on Tim.

“Wow,” he said, his expression lighting up. “You look amazing.”

Tim looked away, flushing. “Thanks,” he said, trying not to feel too pleased while his inner dog thumped its tail.

He managed to keep his staring to a minimum as Rhys breezed inside. He wore another very trim-cut suit in with trousers the rich colour of red wine. His black jacket was a little longer than Tim’s, and he wore it open. The lapels were decorated with a curling embroidered, rococo pattern in golden thread.

He turned on his shiny heels and grinned at Tim. He wore his white shirt with the first few buttons undone. Tim swallowed and pushed his gaze to Rhys’ face.

“I can’t believe you still live here,” Rhys said.

Tim clung to his spike of annoyance with relief. “Not this again,” he said.

“Look at you! Do you really think you look like the kind of man who should live in a one bedroom hole? Your elevator smells like take-out food,” he said, trailing Tim as he went into his kitchen. “I saw a mouse in your hall.”

“You did not,” Tim said. He cast a brief, longing look at the bourbon before he corked the bottle and returned it to its hiding spot under the sink.

When he looked up, he found Rhys leaning against the door frame, his hands hidden behind his back, watching Tim with a strangely serious expression.

He’d styled his hair differently. It looked messier than usual, like someone had put both their hands through it. Strands of it fell into Rhys’ forehead. That, coupled with the rose-pink stain on his lips and the shirt open to show off the rounded tips of his blue tattoos, made him look thoroughly indecent.

Momentary annoyance wasn’t enough. It evaporated like steam in a flash burn. Tim felt his cheeks warm. At least he could blame it on the Woodford’s.

“Have you had a lot to drink tonight?” Rhys asked.

“No,” Tim said. He raised his hand to push through his hair before he recalled all the product he’d used on it only an hour before. He lowered it reluctantly. “I’ve been good lately.” Although it hadn’t been easy.

Rhys smiled at him. “I’m glad,” he said. “I meant what I said before. If you ever feel like you need to drink, I’m just a phone call away.”

Tim’s heart gave a single, lonely knock against his ribs. Rhys’ smile looked so honest. Tim wanted so badly for it to be true.

“You really do sound like my sponsor when you talk like that,” Tim said, his voice rough.

Rhys shrugged. He straightened from his slouch. “Here,” he said, stepping close. “I brought something for you.” He held out a small, embroidered gift bag in white and gold, tied together with a red bow.

“Oh. Rhys, I don’t—“ Need it, Tim tried to say, but he stopped himself because how did he know? He let the thought die unspoken and took the bag gingerly.

“It’s your Christmas gift. I thought I’d give it to you early.” Rhys spoke casually as he strolled through Tim’s living room.

He looked out of place among Tim’s things, the second-hand sofa, the Ikea furniture, the flecks of paint staining the laminate faux-hardwood floor. Cat hair and dust. Rhys’ jacket had a more elaborate design on the back, the same golden embroidery that gleamed like it was spun by Rumpelstiltskin. He found his way to Tim’s bookshelf and examined it with apparent interest.

Tim realised that he’d been staring again, even though he promised himself he wouldn’t. He fumbled with the ribbon and opened the bag. Inside was a glass box. Tim stared at it.

“It’s a watch,” he said.

Rhys scoffed. “Not just any watch. It’s an Audemars Piguet watch.” He drew his finger across the spine of his books. “A Millenary Morita, to be more specific. They only make 36,000 of them a year.” He turned to Tim with a bright smile. “Do you like it?”

The band was a thick blackstrap of leather. The watch’s golden face was a strange oblong shape. The inner gears ticked away, visible beneath the glass, inside a crescent slice curled around its face like a scar. Tiny gems glittered around roman numerals. It was beautiful.

Tim stared at it. He couldn’t bring himself to remove it from its box.

Rhys appeared in front of him. He took the box from Tim’s numb fingers. “I was thinking you could wear it tonight.” He opened it easily and pulled the watch that probably cost twice the amount Tim paid for rent in a year from its blue velvet case.

“Okay,” Tim said, pointlessly. Rhys had his hand in his grip. He pushed Tim’s jacket sleeve up and fastened the watch with ease around his wrist. The leather felt cool and supple on his skin.

“Do you like it?” Rhys asked again. He didn’t let go of Tim’s hand.

That feeling again, like something cold unfurling inside of him. Like something heavy snuffing out an earlier fire, leaving Tim with only smoke. He thought of the gift on his table, the one he’d forgotten to put away. The one Rhys had walked past with barely a glance.

“It’s beautiful.” Tim pulled his hand free. “Shall we go?”

* * *

Jack had indeed booked the entire top floor for the evening’s festivities. The main attraction was the ballroom slash guest lounge, with access to a sprawling rooftop patio, where several heat lamps blazed under a billowing white tent. Flowers burst out from over-flowing crystal vases placed on nearly any flat surface that could hold it, blooming in shades of blue, white and—somehow—gold. Ropes of white lights hung in great, slumped loops from the ceiling, their shine gleaming off of the polished marbled floor, so shiny and smooth it looked like a pond of black ice.

The centerpiece was the ten foot tall Christmas tree, decked out in strings of gold and white, with crystal ornaments hanging from every branch.

“This is… a lot,” Tim said as he stared up at the tree.

“It’s so _tacky_ ,” Rhys said, bouncing on his heels. He’d always known he had better taste than Jack, but it was nice to see the confirmation writ large for everyone to see. “I bet he used real crystals.”

“Swarovski, I understand,” a smooth voice said from behind them. “Leave it to Jack to paint a one-use tree in enough ice to buy a country with.”

“Nisha!” Tim lit up at the sight of his former Lance teammate standing behind them. She wore a pair of high-waisted black trousers and a silk blouse the colour of sherry, with a draped collar so low over her chest it was nearly at her navel. She paired it with an embroidered bolero jacket. A golden and gem-encrusted broach in the shape of a revolver pinned to her breast was the only item of interest.

“Timmy,” she said, unfurling one brown arm to show the sprig of mistletoe she had dangling between her index and ring finger. She held it over her chest. “How ‘bout a kiss, handsome?”

Anger hit Rhys like a spike between his eyes. For a horrible moment, he was afraid Tim would actually kiss her bony chest. But Tim only chuckled, grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand above her head. He kissed her on the cheek.

She sighed and gave him a look that spoke of boredom and disappointment. “Spoil sport,” she said, flicking the hair from her face. “How ‘bout you, beanpole? Got a kiss for me?”

Jesus, who was this woman? Her creepy golden eyes were unnerving. It connected to parts of Rhys’ monkey brain that’d been long dormant, firing off evolutionary alarms he’d never experienced, telling him he was under the observation of some predatory big cat. Rhys pinched his lips and glanced at Tim.

Tim laughed. “Sorry. Rhys, this is Nisha, my brother’s, um. Partner. Nish, this is Rhys, my—“

“Oh, I know exactly who _he_ is.” To Rhys’ horror, she leaned close and pinched Rhys’ cheek between her fingers. “Pretty boy. You’re all over the news these days.”

Her short nails dug into Rhys’ soft, almond-scented skin. “That’s usually my aim.” He discreetly tried to pull away before she could smear his foundation. She smelled like name brand shampoo and men’s body wash and nothing else.

“You aim true,” she said, releasing him. Before Rhys could ask what it mattered to her if he was in the news or not, she turned to Tim. “So, have you heard the news yet, Timmy?”

Tim’s smile slipped a notch. His arm tightened in Rhys’ hold. “Which news?” he asked.

“Jack’s new bodyguard?” She glanced at Rhys. Her smile unrolled slow, sending those evolutionary alarm bells ringing.

“Another one?” Tim asked as Nisha turned away. She waved her hand at someone in the crowd. “God, he chews through them like sticks of gum, doesn’t he? Who is it this time? Some—”

The crowds parted, split like a river splitting against a boulder, and what Rhys had originally thought to be a sculpture carved from obsidian turned out to be a very large man in a black suit.

He had greying hair, a bristling beard, and an eye patch. Rhys honestly could not tell if the man was handsome because there was simply too much of him. Not just his physicality, which was certainly impressive, but in everything.  Rhys felt as Tim must’ve when he’d come face-to-face with the twenty-foot Christmas tree. There was a lot to take in.

“Oh my god. Wil?” Tim’s face split into a smile. He pulled his arm from Rhys’ and stepped away without a backwards glance. “Holy shit!”

The big man— _Wil_?—met Tim on what would become the dance floor, once the drinks had flowed a little more steadily. Tim leaned forward on his heels, making an aborted movement as if he were about to embrace the other man. He flinched back in time and thrust out a hand instead.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” Tim said. It was almost comical, the way Wil’s hand enveloped Tim’s. Rhys had never considered Tim to be a small man before—certainly not his hands, which had been the object of some contemplation (usually at night, or in the shower)—but seeing his fingers vanish under Wil’s massive ones made Rhys reconsider. “It’s been, what? Six years?”

“Must’ve been. At the airport, right?” Wil’s voice had a raspy quality, like an amateur blues singer, or a Top 40s DJ on terrestrial radio.

“Yeah. Jesus, was it that long ago?” Tim laughed and pushed his hand through his hair.

Rhys stared at them both, at the crescent of Tim’s expression he could see from this angle. Rhys realised Tim wasn’t going to come back. He was staring at Wil like he was a celestial event that only happened every 75 years. If Rhys wanted to stick with Tim, he would have to stick with this ‘Wil’, at least for the time being. Rhys did so, snagging a glass of wine from a passing waiter.

“…heard Jack mention you were whipping him into shape,” Tim said. Annoyingly, he was still smiling.

A wince spasmed across Wil’s expression. “Yeah, that’s, uh… That’s something really interesting, I’ll tell you. Even after hearing all those stories about your pain in the ass brother, I didn’t realise he was that bad.”

Tim laughed again. He was doing that a lot, Rhys noticed. And he still hadn’t looked at Rhys. “I _told_ you!” he said.

“I always thought you were exaggerating,” Wil said.

Tim shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder if people think I’m making Jack up.”

Wilhelm’s one eye twinkled under the shelf of his brow. “I was hoping I’d get to see you again soon.”

Tim’s smile unfolded into something soft and sloppy. Rhys gripped the stem of his glass tight. He heard his teeth click together. He took a quiet breath and cleared his throat.

Tim finally looked over, something like guilt flickering in his face. He recovered quickly, his expression smoothing once more.

“Rhys! There you are,” he said, as if Rhys was the one who’d gone running off. “I’d like to introduce you to Wilhelm. He was with me, Nish and Athena in the Lance. He’s an—old friend. Wil, this is Rhys. He’s…” He laughed awkwardly. “Well, you probably already know who he is.”

Wil nodded and extended one of the flesh shovels he called a hand. “Of course. It’s nice to meet you, Rhys Giffiths-Whyte.”

So formal. Rhys smiled. He had not missed the half-breath of hesitation Tim had taken. ‘Old friend’ was he? If Wilhelm looked big next to Tim, he looked gargantuan next to Rhys. Rhys’ cybernetic limb vanished as soon as his hand closed over it.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Rhys said.

“Wil’s a very good friend,” Tim said again. “And a damn fine soldier. This guy saved my bacon more times than I could count. He knew me back when I was a dumbass recruit who could barely hold a rifle.”

Wilhelm bestowed a fond smile onto Tim. “You were never that bad,” he said benevolently.

“I was an idiot,” Tim said. “You might not believe it to look at me now, Rhys, but I used to be a real hot head. Wild.” He spoke as if he were addressing Rhys, but he wouldn’t look away from Wil. “Arrogant, too. And this guy was such a hard ass, especially when it came to me. He was always on my case. If you hadn’t knocked some sense into me those first few months, I don’t know what I would’ve done,” he said.

Rhys drank.

“It’s Athena who deserves the credit,” Wilhelm said. “I was just giving some punk kid a hard time.”

Tim smacked his arm lightly, which must’ve felt like flicking his hand against a brick wall. “Don’t get modest on me now, old man.”

Wilhelm laughed and the bit of his face visible between his scars and hair turned pink. All Rhys could hear was the rasp of his breath. This close, Rhys could see that Wilhelm’s suit had been well-tailored, and the fabric was high quality, but in a boring cut and colour. Just black, American cut. And it looked ridiculous. Even a nice suit would look absurd if you put it on a bear.

And he did look like a bear. Not even in a good way. Rhys took another drink. He did not like this Wilhelm, he decided. They should move on.

He tried to catch Tim’s eye, but Tim couldn’t seem to look anywhere else. He wouldn’t stop gazing at Wilhelm like he was the most famous person there.

Wilhelm’s voice was still sawing away. “I remember when you tried to sneak out of the camp after curfew. You wrapped yourself up in a blanket like it was a ghillie suit and you actually tried to crawl past the fences on your belly.”

Tim shifted his weight and folded his arms. “I was gonna meet a friend in town. The blanket was supposed to go over the wire,” he said.

“You thought you could creep out during my watch,” Wilhelm said, his one eye twinkling again. “I always thought you did it on purpose.”

“What, try to sneak out?” Tim raised an eyebrow.

“On _my_ watch. I would’ve caught hell if I hadn’t caught you first. I think you were trying to give me trouble,” he said.

Tim huffed. “You made me do push-ups in the actual mud outside of camp. You made me run in the rain for hours. I thought my lungs were gonna explode.”

Wilhelm shrugged. “You were a brat. You needed the discipline.”

Something tightened in Rhys’ chest. Tim turned red. Nisha laughed, startling the three of them with her sudden approach. She held a tray above her head, loaded down with three amber drinks in old fashion glasses.

“That’s the trouble with the Lawrence boys,” she said, nudging Tim with her bent elbow. “They’re both a bratty pain in the ass. They need a firm hand,” she went on, passing a drink to Wilhelm, “before they’ll come to heel. Good thing they’ve got a submissive streak a mile wide.”

Rhys choked on a mouthful of his wine. Tim went from red to nearly purple. Nisha slammed her open palm between Rhys’ shoulder blades, a smack that jostled him a half-step forward. 

“I’m sorry, string-bean,” she said. “I didn’t think I was sharing anything you didn’t know.”

“Nisha!” Tim snapped.

“It’s fine,” Rhys said as he fished his handkerchief from his inner pocket. His face still felt warm as he wiped it down, but he could blame that on the wine. He schooled his features and his voice, letting himself sound cool as a December night. “You’ve got quite a unique sense of humour,” he added, stuffing the handkerchief back into his jacket.

Nisha shrugged, unaffected. “I know what’s funny.”

“That wasn’t,” Tim said. He clutched his glass hard enough to make his knuckles pop out.

Rhys turned to Wilhelm, who, he saw, was watching Tim with an expression Rhys couldn’t easily interpret. “It’s nice to hear stories from Tim’s past,” Rhys said in a voice as cool as a breeze in early Spring. “He rarely talks about it. He’s never mentioned you.” Rhys sipped his wine. “Which is a shame.”

Wilhelm moved his large shoulders up and dropped them quickly, as if they were heavy. “I guess I’m not that memorable,” he said with a crooked smile.

Tim actually chuckled. “Yeah, right. You’re real easy to forget, Wil,” he said. The red tide of Nisha’s humiliation had receded, but his cheeks were still pink, Rhys was annoyed to see. “I can’t count the number of eight-foot tall cyborgs I meet on a regular basis.”

It was a lame joke. Almost embarrassing, and it lacked the usual easy sharpness Rhys was used to hearing from Tim. Tim sounded like a teenager trying to be cool.

“Cyborg?” Rhys asked.

“I’m not surprised you didn’t tell your current boy about Wil.” Nisha slung an arm around Tim’s shoulder. “You used to have such an embarrassing crush on him. It was really adorable, watching you trail after him all the time, like a little puppy trying to get his attention.”

Tim’s face looked like a sunburn. Rhys expected a sputtered denial, but Tim didn’t say anything. Rhys stared at him, waiting. Tim’s lips stretched out into a flat line. He looked down at his glass.

Wilhelm cleared his throat. “It’s my leg,” he said, turning to Rhys. “The cyborg thing? My leg. I lost it fifteen years ago. Got a cybernetic not long after. Actually, I just got an upgrade.” He gave Tim a quick smile. “Your brother got me a new one when I started working for him.”

“Oh.” Tim managed a weak grin in response. “I’m glad. Do you like it?”

Wilhelm confirmed that he did. He talked at length about the new limb and the new features Hyperion included in their cybernetics, and the pink fog of embarrassment began to disperse.

Normally, Rhys would be happy to talk about the latest cybernetics on the market. Under any other circumstances, he would happily point out that Hyperion’s tech, while advanced, required more fine-tuning and more frequent check-ups with a registered cybernetic engineer than the comparable Atlas models. He’d talk about how nice it was to see Hyperion enter the playing field, but they were Johnny-Come-Latelys to a marketplace that was rightfully ruled by Atlas. Atlas’ tech was more refined, and they’d been producing it years before prosthetics were a gleam in Hyperion’s yellow eyes. Atlas’ experience translated to sleeker designs, better models, better interfacing between the limb and the human nervous system and brain. The sort of talking points Rhys could make in his sleep.

He drank his wine and didn’t say anything. He watched Tim without making it obvious that he was doing it. Tim didn’t even notice.

Rhys didn’t understand what he was feeling. It was familiar, a sort of clawing anger that made his throat tight and his face hot, but there was something else behind it. Something large and empty, dark as a pit in the centre of his chest.

He could remember feeling like this before, listening to his call go to Sasha’s voice mail for the third time in a row. Seeing pictures of her uploaded to her Facebook page, pictures her friends had taken of her in some club with smoke curling around her smiling face, pressed cheek to cheek with someone Rhys didn’t know.

A feeling that he was losing something. Rhys finished his wine.

Tim laughed at something Wilhelm said. The look on his face felt like a spike in Rhys’ chest. His heart twisted around it.

* * *

The party unfolded. Voices grew loud as the waiters continued to make their rounds, lubricating the social experience with bottles of wine. And if someone didn’t like wine, there were plenty of spirits available at the bar. Everyone was welcome to get as drunk as they liked, however they liked.

Nisha kept the drinks flowing—at least for Tim and Wilhelm. Somehow, she always managed to ‘forget’ Rhys’ drink.

They’d found their way to a corner, out of the bustle and excitement surrounding them, leaving Rhys feeling like a wallflower. He spotted familiar faces in the crowd, top people in the industry. The head of R&D at Maliwan; one of the developers who provided one of the programs Atlas had purchased the rights to for the development of their ECHOeye tech; the kids who developed the blood sugar measurement app; the fresh-faced co-founder of the medical technology start-up who had Atlas interested in contracting to develop some of their smaller cybernetics.

Rhys sipped his third glass of the night and eyed a knot of people on the other side of the room, where the Maliwan R&D woman was making nice with the med tech co-founder.

He couldn’t spend his night on the side-lines like this. He needed to be seen, he needed to network. He tried to catch Tim’s eye, but Tim would barely look at him. God forbid he took a second away from the bipedal bear to talk to his boyfriend. Boss. Fake boyfriend, real boss. Rhys took another drink.

The music had gotten louder. It forced people to either shout to be heard, or to get in nice and close. Wilhelm had started doing the first, but as the night went on, he started tilting his massive head forward, almost spilling into Tim’s personal space. And Tim didn’t move away.

When Nisha arrived with another round—only three again, and Rhys fantasized about dropping his drink down the ridiculous cleavage of her blouse—he decided enough was enough. He tapped Tim on his arm.

“I’m going to go mingle a bit,” Rhys said, leaning towards Tim’s ear.

“Oh.” Tim’s eyebrows went up. “Okay. Uh.”

Rhys waited, although he didn’t know what he was waiting for. Maybe for Tim to offer to join him. Maybe for Tim to realise how inappropriate he was being—spending so much time getting cozy with a man who wasn’t his fake boyfriend in front of all these people with their cameras.

Instead, Tim closed his mouth. He gave a helpless shrug of his shoulders. Rhys smiled, because smiling was cheap, and it was easier than opening his mouth and saying something they might all regret.

Rhys made his way towards the bar. To get water, he decided. He’d need his wits about him if he meant to get serious. And he intended to be very serious. Networking was always the plan. There was nothing to be disappointed about.

He caught the eye of one of the app kids as he crossed the room. She smiled at him, bashful, her round face flushed red with alcohol. Rhys would make this work.

By the time he arrived at the bar, he’d changed his mind. He placed an order for one of the signature cocktails—a white chocolate peppermint martini—cast his gaze around the room, and made battle plans.

Unfortunately, Wilhelm was difficult to miss. He cut a figure even in a crowd, a mass of boring black and grey. Rhys couldn’t see Tim, at least. The last thing he needed was to see what Tim’s face would look like, now that Rhys wasn’t around. Tim probably wouldn’t have noticed that Rhys left if Rhys hadn’t told him first. Rhys took a long drink of his cocktail and placed an order for another.

* * *

Tim stared at Rhys’ departing back. The golden embroidery of his jacket catching the overhead lights, shining like a river of gold poured down his back.

Nisha nudged him. “Old ball and chain finally get tired of you?” she asked.

Tim’s mouth twisted. “He just said he was going to go mingle for a bit.”

Nisha snorted. Wil shifted his weight, his shoulders moving like tectonic plates under the dark earth.

“I hope we weren’t boring him,” he said. “I thought maybe he’d like to hear about my leg, seeing as that’s his business and all.”

“Don’t worry about him,” Nisha said before Tim could reply. “Rhys is like Jack. Important folk like him can’t just waste all their time with peons like us. They have to be seen rubbing elbows with the right kind of people. Isn’t that right, Tim?” She watched him.

“Yeah, that… sounds right,” Tim said, uneasily. She’d always made Tim nervous.

Nisha winked at him before turning to Wil. “Don’t sweat it, big guy. Now, bottoms up! I’m thirsty and y’all are falling behind.” She tapped Wil’s glass, reaching up to do so. He laughed and finished his drink. “You too, handsome,” she said.

Tim examined the finger of scotch still in his glass. The last drink had hit him a little harder than the ones before it, a right hook he could now feel in the slosh behind his eyes.

Nisha looked to be in good order. Her hair was straight and still in its style, and the look in her golden eyes was as cool as it’d been on the day they first met, when she’d made his acquaintance down the barrel of an unloaded rifle. She had been keeping pace with them both all night, but she was a tank. Only a fool would try to keep up with her. Looking down at the nearly empty glass in his hand, Tim realised that he’d been doing exactly that.

Tim looked back out at the crowds, to where Rhys had vanished moments before. He lost track of his earlier thought, his eyes growing unfocused. It was good to see Wil again, but shouldn’t he be with Rhys? He frowned and tapped his finger against the edge of his glass. Rhys would want him close. What if there were cameras?

Tim looked away, his expression souring. The warmth in his stomach curdled.

“Drink up already.” Nisha nudged the back of his arm with her elbow, knocking the liquid against the glass. “Stop looking so moony. Your boss can take care of himself for two minutes.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Tim said. He drank up anyway.

This was Rhys’ fault. He wouldn’t have come to this damn thing if Rhys hadn’t made him.

Except Rhys hadn’t made him, not really. Tim just came with him. Like he was still that dumb kid, that little puppy, trailing after the person who…

The cognac lit up Tim’s brain like firebugs in the darkness behind his eyes. It rolled over his insides, unfolding like an avalanche down the side of a mountain, burying the outcroppings of invasive thoughts and spikes of anxiety, smoothing out his inner topography. With all that ugliness buried under foot after foot of crushing cold so thick and absolute it felt warm, and Tim felt at ease.

He sighed with pleasure and let his eyes slip shut, enjoying the feeling of being drunk without being in trouble. Walking the knife’s edge between the two. One drink would probably tip him over, but even that couldn’t dredge the worry up from the depths.

He thought of Rhys. A crack appeared in the whiteness of inner landscape, as fine as spider silk.

Rhys would be fine. He could look pretty for the cameras without Tim on his arm. And if Atlas’ stock happened to drop an eighth of a point just because Tim wasn’t gazing adoringly at Rhys for an hour, then they would both just have to deal with it.

When he opened his eyes, he found Wil watching him with a smile. That brought a fresh wave of pleasure over him, tingling like electricity. He smiled back.

“Still thirsty?” Wil asked.

Nisha watched him expectantly. Tim licked his lips, enjoying the rich, oak flavour of decent whiskey. “I could drink,” he admitted.

“Of course you could,” Nisha said. She’d turned away, craning her neck to see over the heads of the crowds. “God, I’m sick of all these people. Buncha freeloaders, drinking on someone else’s dime.” She kissed her teeth. “Let’s go someplace quiet. I’m tired of yelling.”

Tim looked at the crowds, as if seeing them for the first time. He hadn’t exactly minded when he and Wil had been forced to put their head close together.

Nisha raised her eyebrows. “Are you guys okay with that?”

Tim had forgotten the question. He squinted at Nisha as if she’d written it on her forehead. Wil frowned.

“I don’t know if it’s a great idea to leave the boss,” Wil said. God, Tim loved listening to him talk. He had a voice like a river, water rolling over smooth stones. “I’m supposed to be his bodyguard.”

“Wait.” That sparked through the haze in Tim’s mind like a static shock through cotton. “Where are we going? I can’t leave Rhys.”

“He left you first,” Nisha shot back. “Geez, the pair of you goody two-shoes. Will you relax? Jack’s got this place more secure than Fort Knox.”

Wil frowned and cast his gaze over everyone’s head. “Where is Jack, anyway?” he asked. “I expected him to be shouting karaoke tunes over the PA by now.”

Nisha snorted. “He’s around. Don’t worry about it so much.”

Tim frowned, and tried to follow their gaze. He’d seen Jack, hadn’t he? Flashes of him here and there like pale lightning through the crowds, the distant bray of his laughter, the ringing of his voice. He was there, more presence than person. Tim avoided him instinctively when he was like this. Being around Jack when he was capital-o On made Tim feel like an awkward sixteen year old again.

“Jack’s fine. Rhys is fine. Nothing’s gonna happen to any of the pampered assholes at this party.” Nisha sniffed. The sound of her voice pulled Tim back. “They confiscated my weapons.”

“You didn’t sneak one in anyway?” Tim asked, swaying on his feet.

“They took that one too. That’s how good the security is.” Nisha wound her arm through Tim’s and tugged him forward. “Come on, pretty boy. I’m tired of this place.”

“Wait, where are we going?” Tim sent a pleading look over his shoulder at Wil, who was still standing against the wall. “We can’t just leave, can we?” He wouldn’t just leave Tim alone with Nisha, would he?

“Come on.” Nisha yanked him forward, causing him to stumble. “And you too, big guy,” she shot over her shoulder.

Wil looked at the crowd, hesitating. For a terrible moment, Tim thought that he wouldn’t come. And then he thought maybe it would be better if he didn’t come. And then he thought, maybe _I_ shouldn’t go.

But Wil pushed away from the wall and caught up with them in three easy strides. He fell in behind them like a shadow.

God, he was tall. And big. A lot of old and familiar fantasies burbled inside Tim’s head, brought back from wherever they’d lain dormant for the last six years. Marco had been a little bigger than Tim, but not so large that he could shove him around.

The thought of that—and of those big hands on him, holding him down —sent a spike of heat to the simmering in his stomach. Tim’s eyes slipped out of focus, his gaze falling into fantasy land. He forgot to resist as Nisha pulled him through and out of the ballroom.

By the time he’d returned to reality, he found himself standing outside in a hallway, staring at a closed door. He could hear the thumping music from the party they’d left, but it was muffled, as if it were coming through yards of snow.

“Where are we?” he asked as Nisha produced a keycard.

“Someplace more quiet.” She smiled over her shoulder at him, her dark lips pulling back to show off the gleam of her straight teeth.

“I thought we were gonna get another drink,” Wil said. He was looking down the hall as Nisha tapped her card against the reader. “Is this your room?”

“The whole floor is ours.” Nisha waved her hand dismissively around them. “Jack’s giving out cards to anyone who asks.”

Wil’s lips pulled back in a horrified sneer. Tim rolled his eyes.

“Of course he is. When’s the scheduled orgy?” he asked.

“Little brothers aren’t invited,” Nisha said, tapping him on the forehead with the flat end of the card. She pushed the door open. “You’ll have to find yourself a private party.”

Tim’s heart thumped. He rubbed the back of his neck and did not look at Wil as he stepped inside.

Annoyingly, he thought about Rhys. He dropped his hand and shook his head. Rhys would be fine. There was no reason to think about him.

Nisha danced ahead of them, swinging her hips as she stalked through the room. She made a pleased noise when she found the bar fridge, knelt down and yanked it open.

It was a nice room, Tim supposed, although he was having a hard time focusing through the warm, rising haze. There were windows, and Tim could see the golden and white lights of the city at night. Everything looked clean and well-cared for. The décor looked modern, although Tim was a poor judge of that. There was a desk, and an arm chair. A large television screen, set almost seamlessly into the wall.

There was a bed. Bigger than Tim’s bed back home. A king-sized, probably, with a fat duvet sitting like a layer of cream. Pillows were piled as high as white mountain peaks. It looked comfortable. Soft enough to sink into.

Wil stepped up behind Tim, nearly scraping the back of his shoes. Tim jumped, and Wil grabbed his elbow, steadying him before he could stumble. Tim’s idiot heart knocked against his ribs like an unwanted guest.

Wil’s hands were so _big_. Tim had spent countless lonely hours during his twenties, thinking about those big hands.

“Sorry,” Wil said. Tim managed a smile.

“It’s fine,” he said, voice creaking only a little. Wil stared intently at Tim’s face, as if he were searching for something. He didn’t release his arm. “Uh, everything okay?”

The door swung shut behind them. Wil flinched at the sound and dropped Tim’s arm as if it’d grown spikes.

“Fine,” he said.

Nisha emerged from her predatory crouch with a prey’s glass neck clutched tight in her hand. “Look!” she crowed. Liquid sloshed noisily against the side of the bottle as she shook it. “I found tequila!”

“Oh god,” Tim said. Wil made a face.

“Relax,” Nisha said as she pulled out glasses from the sideboard. “It’s good stuff. High quality. You don’t get hang-overs from five hundred dollar bottles of alcohol.”

“ _You_ don’t, maybe,” Tim grumbled, but he didn’t refuse the drink she shoved into his hand.

“Right.” She stood beside them and held her glass high. “To good times.”

“To old friends,” Wil said, and met her glass with a clink. They both turned to Tim, expectant.

This was a bad idea. Another drink was a _very_ bad idea. He was already pretty close to the edge of sloppy, the edge of drunk where bad decisions seemed reasonable and appealing.

Wil was there, everywhere in Tim’s head, like he’d never given up vacancy. Tim’d had it pretty bad, once upon a time. And it was a night like this one, with alcohol singing in his blood, where he’d gone and made a fool’s choice, and said some things to Wil that he would never get to take back.

Wil had said his own share of things, as Tim recalled. After that, they’d both gone inside the same room, the only one with a bed large enough, and done some things they wouldn’t talk about the next morning.

Time had dulled the edge of that particular hurt, but that didn’t mean Tim had lost track of the scars.

In the midst of all that, shining like a bad penny, Tim saw Rhys in his mind’s eye. His lips tingled, although they had no right to.

“To hell with it.” Tim raised his glass and gave them both a thin smile. They all drank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblo: nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More bad decisions are made. They should've left the party hours ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some explicit scenes.

Rhys made friends. He was very good at it. The trick was to picture himself through their eyes, to remember how he looked to outsiders. He was rich, and handsome, and he had a nice smile, and most of the people around him were not as rich, or not as handsome. When he smiled at them, they would almost certainly smile back. Because he would make them nervous, and a smile is a monkey-brain reaction to a threat. Show off those pearly whites, let the bigger, meaner predator know you’re not a threat.

Jesus Christ. Rhys had maybe a little too much to drink.

Never mind that now. Rhys was still a welcome sight, and everyone else was just as drunk, if not worse off. He spent the next hour making the rounds, finding the movers and shakers he’d been eyeing before, and giving each one his magazine-ready smile and his business card. The app kids nearly fell over with gratitude. They offered him drinks. One shyly asked if she could take a picture with him.

“This is going right on Instagram,” she gushed.

“I look best in Valencia,” Rhys informed her.

At one point, Rhys’ natural circuit had taken him back to where he’d left Tim with his little friends. He hadn’t meant to look—in fact, he very carefully kept his back to the corner those wallflowers had been huddling in—but when he just so happened to glance over his shoulder, because he’d thought he’d heard someone call his name, he found that they were no longer there.

That Tim was gone.

Rhys looked quickly away, as if he’d seen something upsetting. He tried to take another drink, only to find the glass empty. He drew his finger through the sweet, white froth around the glass and tried to think of what he’d been talking about before. He could not even remember a single name of any of the people in the group with him. He licked the last of the peppermint vodka-spiked whipped cream from his finger, gave them all a slick smile, and excused himself as quickly as he could.

The buzz he’d been happily riding for the last hour finally crashed. His head felt hot and tight. The floor didn’t meet his feet properly and he was forced to walk with exaggerated care as he made his way to the bar.

A camera flashed somewhere to his left. It would be someone’s cellphone, something personal, and it probably wasn’t even about him. Probably someone taking a selfie. The lights had gotten low and the music had gotten loud.

Rhys finally made it to the bar, half-collapsing against it as if he’d found a life raft in the middle of the ocean. The bartender smiled when he placed an order for another white chocolate candy cane martini, and smiled wider when Rhys asked that she go easy on the booze.

“That kinda night, huh, pal?” the bartender asked with a knowing chuckle.

Rhys rubbed the skin above his brow. “Looks like,” he said.

He watched the dance floor while he waited for his drink. Nobody looked very good. Women danced in groups, swaying their hips and waving their hands above their heads, their feet planted firmly on the ground. Some men bobbed their heads and shimmied their shoulders, dancing with as little movement as possible.

Rhys was tempted to join in and show them how it was done. If this was one of his parties, or if it were a more private affair, he absolutely would and he wouldn’t even need to be that drunk to do it. But there must’ve been more than two hundred people in attendance and Rhys didn’t know most of them.

But they would know him, and they would have cameras.

Rhys sighed and sipped his drink. Seconds passed and the song changed. The DJ actually spun a record between her two hands before setting it down onto the table. Rhys stared at her, watched the way strobing lights backlit different parts of her as she worked. He could see an arm and a shoulder, and then a neck and an ear, and then the fold of her skirt, a puzzle-woman without real form. It was nice not to think about anything.

Where would Tim be? The thought formed from the fog in Rhys’ mind, assembling like clouds crashing together in the sky to form the shape of a lost dog. Rhys scowled and drank a mouthful of what was mostly chocolate and whipped cream.

It didn’t matter, he told himself. They would find each other later. There was no need to worry.

Tim might be with them, his mind chattered on anyway. He might be with _him_ , with the furry giant he couldn’t stop making goo-goo eyes at.

Rhys shifted on the bar stool. He felt pain spike in his chest as if he’d unhinged his ribcage and shoved a cactus between his lungs. Tim could make goo-goo eyes at whoever he wanted to, he reminded himself. It wasn’t as if they were…

Rhys looked down at his empty glass. He tapped his fingers against the rim, contemplating another.

It wasn’t as if they were. They were. Not as if Rhys had _said_ anything. Not as if Tim had _asked_ for anything. When Rhys had fumbled after their stupid not-date and asked without asking if Tim would like to stay and Tim had looked right into his face and said good night.

The song changed again. A familiar beat, a fade in that crashed with the bridge of the last song. Rhys knew what it was, even before the signature orchestral swell. He’d been hearing that song in his dreams.

_Where d’you think you’re going, baby?_

Rhys rubbed his nose angrily, sniffing. The fake smoke stung his eye, made it water. It messed with his throat too, made it feel tight. This party sucked.

He should dance. He should find Tim. One way or the other, he should get away from the bar. Rhys slipped off the stool and made his way towards the strobing lights and the billowing blue smoke, where silhouettes of people writhed like damned souls in the underworld.

The smoke parted like a curtain and Rhys saw Nisha swaying her hips, her head tipped back and her eyes closed, a look of ecstasy on her face. Truly dancing as if no one were watching, which of course meant that no one could look away. Rhys felt stunned until something clicked.

“Hey!” she snarled as Rhys grabbed her arm. Her expression cleared when she saw his face. “Oh, it’s you. Heya, beansprout. How’s it hanging?”

“Where’s Tim?” Rhys demanded.

Nisha flicked a lock of hair away from her face. “I dunno. Probably with Wilhelm still. They were gettin’ pretty cozy on that king sized when I left.” She grinned.

The blood drained from Rhys’ face. He blinked at her, feeling lost and stupid, while her smile widened. Her lipstick had smeared a little, a flaw that would be a crack in some lesser person’s armour, but on Nisha it just looked intentional. Like she wanted Rhys and all the other lookers to know she’d been using her mouth for indecency, and she still looked good.

“Where are they?” He stepped in close, tired of yelling over Carly Rae to be heard. He still hadn’t let go of her arm, something that just seemed to amuse her rather than threaten, if the gleam in her eyes was any indication. “How much did you make Tim drink?”

Nisha laughed, a puff of breath that knocked another strand of hair from where it’d been sweat-stuck to her brow. “What are you, his chaperone?”

“I’m his—“ Rhys stopped, choking on his spit. He shook his head, swallowed and tried again. “It doesn’t matter. I’m worried about him.” He grit his teeth when she only laughed again. “You should be too! He shouldn’t— shouldn’t be drinking so much. It’s bad for him.”

“What about you, kid?” she asked, tilting her head to the side like he’d hooked her curiosity. “How many have you had tonight?”

Rhys sputtered. “That’s…!” A lot. Probably too much. “None of your business!”

Nisha was laughing at him. Rhys could see it in her snake-like eyes. He’d never wanted to hit a girl before. She patted him on his shoulder. He curled his hand into a trembling fist.

“Relax, okay?” she said. “He’s fine. Wil’s gonna take good care of him. Unless that’s why you’re so worked up in the first place?”

Rhys let out all the breath from his lungs. He looked down at where he still held her arm, his brows crunched together like he hadn’t expected to see anything. “That’s… I don’t…”

Nisha’s gaze slipped away, over Rhys’ shoulder. Her eyes widened, her violet lips parted. She wore a look of twinkling excitement that made Rhys’ skin crawl.

“Hey, babe,” she said.

Something heavy and solid fell onto Rhys’ shoulders. An arm curled tight around the juncture of Rhys’ neck, pulling him close to a familiar body.

“This guy giving you trouble?” Rhys felt his breath tickle the back of his ear. The scent of tobacco, ginger and vanilla filled his nose.

Nisha shoved her hair from her face and pulled her arm free from Rhys’ now limp grip, laughing. “This beanpole? No, but he was trying to, I think.”

“Mind if I steal him?”

Nisha gave a dismissive flick of her hand, already twisting away, half-dancing to join the others. “All yours, handsome.”

“Don’t have too much fun without me!” he called out. Nisha blew a kiss over her shoulder before the crowd parted around her and she joined them, became another limb of the mob, leaving Rhys alone on the edge of the dance floor. He swallowed.

The arm around his neck tightened like a bolt. “I think it’s time you and me have a little talk.”

Rhys looked, finally. Jack stared back, his white fright mask looking almost slick under the smoke and flashing blue-white lights. His mis-coloured eyes were fixed on Rhys’ face and his lips were pulled into a tight, unpleasant smile.

Rhys suppressed a shudder. He straightened the hang of his shoulders, met Jack’s gaze with his own bi-coloured one, and sniffed.

“Whatever you like, Jack,” he said, aiming for casual. One of Jack’s dramatic brows—more arched, more shaped than Tim’s, Rhys noticed—twitched, but he didn’t say anything.

He lead Rhys away, past the dancers, past the crowds, out to the main entrance and into the halls of the hotel.

* * *

The night became sticky after the toast, events passing like a muddy river. They’d ended up on the bed, although Tim had hesitated at first. Nisha had pulled him down by his arm and he’d sunk into the thick duvet like it was a warm bath. The whole bed dipped when Wil joined them.

“You okay over there?” he’d asked. Tim had only smiled at him, so thoroughly and completely drunk.

Impressions crowded Tim’s mind as he struggled to recall events that’d happened six, seven, ten years prior. Conversations over-lapped, their voices climbing over each other as they each tried to remember the last person to pass out during Tim’s 25th birthday.

“It was not Athena,” Tim insisted again. “She never passed out once in her life. She left us.” His sibilants skated over each other, slick as fresh snow on a frozen pond. “She’d left us by then. Went to bed.”

“I coulda sworn she was there,” Wil said. His large brows were pushed together, creating a ladder on his forehead. Tim stared at the lines and thought about pressing his thumb against one. He was still lying down, propped up on half the pillows they’d found on the bed, much to Wil’s amusement.

“She was there for some of it,” Tim said. He pushed himself up, squinting blearily around the room. “She left before… before Nisha brought the guy. The shirtless guy. For money.”

“Stripper,” Wil supplied. His eyes were twinkling. “What are you looking for?”

“Bottle,” Tim said. And then, as he continued to look around, he realised two things: something was missing, and it’d been bothering him for some time.

“I think maybe you’ve had enough,” Wil said gently.

Tim squinted at him. He looked down at himself. He looked around again.

“Where’s Nisha?” he asked.

Wil laughed. “You noticed! She left while you were in the washroom, Timmy.”

Tim could not recall how long ago that’d been. He fell back, cushioned by his precious pillows, and let his head drop to the bed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I figured you would’ve spotted it by now,” Wil admitted. “And when you didn’t, I thought it was funnier to not say anything.”

Tim scowled. “You were laughing at me.”

“Maybe a little,” Wil said. He was leaning on one arm, lying on his side next to Tim, watching as Tim rubbed at his brows. “You’re pretty hammered, huh?”

 _“Tequila_.” Tim spat the word with disgust. “I dunno why I let myself get roped into these shenananangins. Nisha’s a terrible influence.”

“You’ve always been pretty easy to talk into trouble,” Wil agreed. He reached over and tapped Tim’s nose with the callused pad of one large finger. It was a very gentle touch. Tim missed it when he withdrew.

He wanted to tell Wil that he’d grown up a lot in the last six years. He’d gotten his life straightened out. He’d figured out how to live without a rifle on his back, without a curfew and a scheduled 5am wake-up call. Although that didn’t mean he didn’t wake up at 5am anyway. He had cats now. Plants, too. Living things that needed him to be a responsible person, that needed him to survive. That he’d started to build a collection of books. Real books! That meant so much to him. Those filled shelves meant, more than anything else, that Tim had set down roots that weren’t easily moved. He was an uncle. He had people in his life. He was talking to his brother again. He could enforce healthy boundaries with said brother. Most of the time.

And he had a job.

Tim swallowed. His fingers itched for the neck of a bottle. Instead he pushed them into the hollows of his eyes, as though he could scrub away the image of a certain tall, handsome asshole he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about.

“Nice watch,” Wil said. Tim looked at his arm.

“Oh.” He lowered his hand. “Thanks. It was a gift.”

“Suits you,” Wil said.

Tim huffed a breath of a laugh. “Yeah. Rhys’ personal shopper has got a good eye.”

“You okay?” Wil asked.

No. Absolutely not. Alcohol was medicine the way leeches used to be medicine six hundred years ago or whatever. Drawing all kinds of ill tempers to the surface.

“I’ve missed you,” Tim said. He hadn’t mean to. Guilt curled within him, delicate and thin as a palm frond.

Wil rolled over, onto his back. “You always knew where to find me,” he said quietly.

Tim scrubbed one hand through his hair. “I know. I meant to send an email or a letter or something, but…” He dropped his head back into his pillow nest and sighed. “At first things were so busy with Jack’s recovery, and trying to find a place to live, and looking after Angel while Jack attended his physical therapy and everything. And then when things settled down, I had to look for a job, and that seemed like it never ended.”

“I’ve heard a lot of people tell me they find it hard to work after coming home,” Wil said.

“It wasn’t that. I could find the work I just… I could never keep it. I hated every job. They were so…” He sketched a rough shape in the air with one hand, as if he were conducting. “Something,” he settled on. “Bad. Unsatisfying. _Thin_. I would quit. I’m not trying to make an excuse. I guess I am. But either way, I am sorry I never reached out.”

Wil folded his hands over his stomach. He stared at the ceiling. “I guess part of it was my fault. I know I left things kind of awkward between us. Because of… You know.”

“Oh. Well.” Tim gazed up at the brushed chrome light fixtures. He could remember the ‘you know’ Wilhelm was trying not to actually talk about. The night both of them had agreed, without actually saying it out loud, they would pretend didn’t exist.

“I felt bad. Still do,” Wil said. He looked over at Tim. “Tim. Are you happy?”

Tim’s brows pulled together. “Huh. Someone had asked me that recently,” he mumbled. He scrubbed his face again. “’S a big question.”

“I guess. Okay. How about you tell me about the one thing in your life that makes you happiest?” Wil suggested.

The answer sat like a fist in Tim’s throat. He didn’t have to think about shared lunches, or singing along to the radio, or the make-up drawer, the powder-smooth cheek under his fingers, skin so baby soft Tim could feel it even after he’d pulled away. Lips on his, the taste of vinaigrette, the scent of something floral and earthy, of saffron and vanilla. It came over him suddenly, hotter than the tequila that’d buried him before. Tim closed his eyes, surrendering to it.

“Judging by the look on your face, I’m guessing it’s a some _one_ , not a something, you’ve got on the brain,” Wil said.

Tim’s throat worked in a swallow. “He’s also my biggest source of unhappiness,” he said, his voice rough. He opened his eyes to find Wil staring down at him with an expression of sympathy, just barely visible beyond all of his grey hair.

God, so much grey. Tim could remember being able to count the strands of silver in Wil’s beard, and now it was the only thing he could see.

“What are you smiling at?” Wil asked.

“You.” Tim reached out and drew his finger down the curving length of Wil’s beard. “You’ve gone grey, old man.”

Wil snorted. “It’ll happen to you,” he said. “You’ll get old one day, kid.”

Tim let his arm drop. “I feel like I already am.”

“Please.” Wil rolled over to his side, facing Tim once more. “You’re what, 35 now?”

“I’m actually 36,” Tim said.

“Yeah, you’re basically still an infant,” he said. Tim’s laugh was an unattractive snort. “Just as I remember you. Basically a baby with a bad attitude and a bad haircut.”

Tim scowled and ran his hand over his hair, half-expecting to feel the bristles of a recent buzz. “They made me get that haircut,” he said.

“You pulled it off,” Wil said.

Tim watched the shadows move across the ceiling. The memory of his almost-date with Rhys hung around his thoughts like strings of Christmas tree lights, sparkling with every blink, draped over every image like something tacky and unnecessary.

“Do you think that if I’d stayed, things would’ve gone different between us?” Tim asked.

“What do you mean?” Wil asked.

Tim turned his head and met Wil’s eyes. Wil lowered his head and looked away.

“You know what I mean,” Tim said.

“I don’t know, Timmy,” Wil said. “What happened between us… We were drunk.”

Tim rolled over to his side, until he could face Wil. “Nisha was right, you know. I’d always had the biggest crush on you,” Tim said. He felt like he’d earned a prize when Wil turned pink under all that bristle. “I needed to be drunk to get my nerve up.”

Wil swallowed. “Yeah.”

“I don’t know about you, but I don’t regret a thing about that night,” Tim said. He found himself relaxing into the sound of his own voice, the cadence of things he’d imagined saying to Wilhelm’s face for years. It felt good to finally do it. “My only regret is that I didn’t contact you after.”

“Well.” Wil shrugged one shoulder. They were curling towards each other, like petals pulling together in the frost. “You were busy.”

“I already told you. I was too chicken-shit to say a word. I should’ve reached out when Jack told me he’d hired you as his personal trainer, but I was too nervous. And now you’re his bodyguard,” Tim said. The alcohol softened his words, and they dripped from his mouth like melting caramel. His joints felt loose, and it took real effort to keep his head up. He hoped he could lie down again soon.

“Chicken-shit?” Wil repeated, the mass of his eyebrows high. “I’ve never known you to be so easily spooked. I hope I’ve never given reason you reason to be scared of me,” he added, voice lowering.

 _Sweet_. That was the word. Wil was being kind of sweet. Tim rubbed his smiling mouth, feeling chagrinned and pleased.

“Honestly…” he started, surprising himself. He knew what he wanted to say next wasn’t going to make him look very good, but the alcohol had loosened everything in him. He felt like an old fashioned ball-joint doll, the kind with elastics in the limbs, tight and twanging with every movement. The drinks had warmed all that, caused the elastics in him to slacken their grip around all that they would normally bind. Including his tongue.

He wanted to be honest for Wil. He would try.

“Honestly,” he tried again, “honestly, it was Jack. It wasn’t you. It was… I mean, you’d met him now. Before, when I knew you in the marines and then the Lance, when we were together, you only got my version of him. He existed in my words but in nothing else, right? And now you met him.” Tim used his hands as he spoke, gesturing towards an invisible guest on the other side of the door. “So, you know.”

Wil looked at the closed door. He looked back at Tim. “I do?”

Tim huffed, impatient and amused by Wil’s feigned density. Of course he knew. Everyone knew, within seconds of meeting Jack. “Yeah,” he said. “You know. You’ve met him. The good one.”

“The… good one,” Wil repeated carefully.

“The favourite. I mean, if we had parents, he would be the favourite. He was definitely the favourite in our friends group. They weren’t even really my friends.” Tim pulled himself up with a groan, his back twinging. “They were his friends. I didn’t make my own friends until he left me. And they were shitty people, honestly. Most of them are dead now.” He scooted to the other edge of the bed, swung his legs over the side. “So I was afraid that when you met him, you would… You would know.” Tim’s voice thickened. He looked down at his feet.

Wil didn’t speak which, to Tim’s drunken estimation, confirmed a few things.

“You… were afraid that I would like Jack more than I like you?” Wil spoke at last, sounding baffled.

Tim shrugged. “People do. He’s a genius. Fun to be around. Impressive. Gifted. Special kid, in special classes. I, uh…” Tim scratched the back of his neck. “I did my best, but I was never, you know… special. Or anything. It’s fine. I’m okay with it now. I’ve gone to, like, five hundred hours of therapy. So. It’s cool.”

“Tim.” Wil spoke his name with such a mixture of exasperation and fondness that it made Tim’s chest ache. A big wrapped around Tim’s bicep. “Come on back here,” he said and tugged him back onto the bed. Tim fell willingly, landing in the froth of the crumpled duvet with a _wuff_ of air. He met Wil’s eyes and gave him a crooked grin.

“You’re ridiculous,” Wil said, enunciating the long and difficult word with the precision of someone who was drunker than they wanted to appear. “I say this out of complete respect for my current employer: he’s an insane person.”

Tim laughed.

“If he wasn’t paying me, I’d probably have shot him by now. He takes people that way. I know it ain’t just me. I can’t believe you haven’t noticed by now,” Wil said.

Tim held his mouth while he giggled. “Well—yeah. But he’s… he’s…”

“I don’t care what he is.” Wil reached out and, with a gentleness that would surprise anyone who didn’t know him, brushed a tear from Tim’s cheek with his thumb. “I like you better.”

Tim recognized this charge, the thrill of potential, as potent as bottled lightning. He’d felt it more times than he could count. It always made him smile.

“It’s a tough gig, working for Jack,” Wil said. His gaze kept darting to Tim’s lips.

Tim edged forward. Wil bent his head towards him, pulled in by the gravity of Tim’s smile, his half-lidded eyes.

“I’m glad you’re here now, Wil,” Tim said.

“Y-yeah,” Wil said. Inches away now, and Tim was growing impatient. “I’m glad—“

That was enough talking, Tim decided, and he closed the distance.

* * *

Rhys had meant what he’d told Tim. He really wasn’t afraid of Jack.

Alright. Maybe he had been, once. Maybe, when he’d been a very young man of only twenty-four, untested and fresh to the position his father had only just vacated, and Jack had already risen from being a nobody to having taken the Hyperion crown in a bloody coup—yes, maybe, back then, Rhys had felt… certain things. And fear may have been among them.

But that was four long years ago, and Rhys was no longer that man. When Jack lead them to a secluded part of the hotel, to a room at the end of a long hall, Rhys didn’t even tremble. Even though Jack had not loosened his hold around Rhys’ neck. Like he thought Rhys might try to run. As if he would give him the satisfaction.

Jack only released his grip when the door shut behind them, sealing them inside. He stalked off to the sideboard, where a crystal decanter with matching glasses sat, gleaming under the soft light, where it’d been waiting for them.

It was a nice enough room, Rhys supposed as he rolled his shoulders. Large. There was a partition made from frosted glass, separating the sleeping area from the lounge area, where Rhys could see the smudged and ghostly outline of a bed. That was fine. Rhys could look at the bed, while standing alone in a room with Jack, without even blushing. Something that would’ve been impossible even three years ago.

It was kind of nice. Showed personal growth. His tastes had gotten more refined. Well, of course they had. The thought brought a wave of confidence that Rhys would always welcome.

The clink of ice hitting the bottom of a glass brought Rhys home from his reverie. “What do you think?” Jack asked, sparing him a glance.

Rhys crossed his arms. “Plenty of things, usually. But you’re going to have to be more specific.”

Jack rolled his eyes as he poured Rhys a measure of something the colour of cured leather. Rhys had seen the gesture more times than he could count coming from Tim, but it was shocking just how different it looked on Jack. Tim was always quick, a flick of his gaze to the ceiling or the sky, as if he were appealing to a higher power. Jack actually rolled his eyes, like a bored teen in detention.

“Of the party, dummy.” Jack held out a glass. “This is—what? Your first Hyperion shindig since you were a baby?”

“I was twenty-one,” Rhys said, accepting the drink. Was this Jack’s first volley? Reminding him of how young he was, the first time they’d met? It was like flicking a grain of sand against a bullet-proof glass.

“Right. Baby. I remember the first time I laid eyes on you. You were shaking that skinny ass on the dance floor.”

Alright, that one was a little better. Rhys sipped his drink. “I was pretty hammered that night,” he said casually.

“I’ll say. I thought you were gonna hurl to the Cupid Shuffle,” Jack said.

Rhys’ lips twisted. “That would be more about the song choice than the alcohol, if I had thrown up. Which I _hadn’t_ ,” he added, pointing his pinky at Jack. Jack scoffed. “Even back then, I could hold my booze,” Rhys went on smugly. “You weren’t even CEO yet.”

Jack tipped his head back. “God, right? Practically a million years ago. You know, when I first saw you, I couldn’t believe you were supposed to be the next top dog of Atlas. I mean, you were just a kid with a bad haircut and a flashy suit.”

“You’ve got some nerve, judging my fashion sense. Especially when you’ve got that monstrosity on.” He gestured at Jack’s champagne and cream coloured outfit. One of Jack’s absurdly dramatic brows twitched. “It’s well-made, and god knows you and Tim’ve got the worst hip-to-shoulder ratio for a well-made suit to deal with, but come _on_. You always look like you left the most talented tailor in the city in tears. Imagine getting something that nice and then ruining it with your god awful taste in… everything.

“And it’s not just your wardrobe,” Rhys went on, warming to the subject as he began to walk an unsteady circuit around the room. “It’s the Hyperion colours too. Yellow and aqua? What are you, a movie poster from 2012?” Rhys wrinkled his nose as he examined the white coffee table, a strange, round thing that looked like a frozen bubble emerging from the white rug beneath it.

Jack didn’t speak, which was strange. When Rhys looked over, he found Jack leaning with one arm on the sideboard, watching Rhys with a lop-sided smile on his stupid handsome face.

“You’ve been thinking about my shoulder-to-hip ratio, Rhysie?” he asked.

Rhys blinked and breathed in deep the scent of clean linen. Getting out of the smoke and the party atmosphere had done some favours for the miasma of alcohol fumes behind his eyes. He tipped his head and smiled.

“Not yours,” he said. “I had to put Tim in something nice for our date the other week. I’m surprised you didn’t see any pictures. He looked really good in all black. Striking.” Rhys’ insides warmed just thinking about how good Tim had looked in the suit Rhys had picked for him.

Tim was dressed in another suit tonight, come to think of it. Just for Rhys.

And then Rhys recalled that someone else was currently enjoying Tim in his nice suit. Hot on the heels of that, came the realization that Tim and Wil were almost certainly in a hotel room just like this one.

Rhys looked down at the melting chunk of ice in his drink. He chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“Something wrong, pumpkin?” Jack asked, voice thick and sweet as honey.

Rhys tried to summon the courage he’d had when he first stepped into the wolf’s lair, but the wind had come out of his sails. He puffed out his chest, raised his head, and decided to fake it regardless.

“Nothing,” Rhys said.

Jack’s gaze raked over Rhys’ face, down his neck and over his chest. He licked his lips. Rhys felt his hackles rise.

“I don’t remember much about that night,” Jack said. “But I remember you. I remember watching you and thinking ‘what a fucking idiot this kid is’. Thinking ‘I’m gonna eat him alive.’ Thinking ‘he’s pretty fucking cute, though’.”

Rhys swallowed. His grip tightened on his drink. Jack grinned. He pushed away from the wall and began to stalk slowly towards Rhys.

“Course, I wasn’t about to take home some jailbait when I was gettin’ ready for my shot at the big chair,” Jack went on. “’Specially not with your daddy being who he was. I would’ve caught hell for deflowering the Atlas heir when I’d only just gotten promoted.”

“I wasn’t a virgin,” Rhys snapped.

“You sure danced like one,” Jack shot back. He was in front of Rhys now, barely an inch out of arm’s reach. Rhys could back away. He had a few feet before he would hit the wall, and he could side-step from Jack’s grip before it got to that. But that would mean ceding ground to Jack, and Rhys wasn’t prepared to do that just yet.

Rhys sneered. “What makes you think I would’ve gone home with you in the first place?”

Jack huffed a soft laugh, a gesture so like one of Tim’s that Rhys felt it pull something in his chest. Though it hurt, he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

“C’mon, Rhys.” Jack took another step closer, officially invading Rhys’ personal space. “You think I’m blind? I saw you watching me all night.”

Rhys flushed. “I have not—“

 _“That_ night. Seven years ago, dummy.” Another step, easing forward. Rhys tensed but didn’t move away. “Making little doe eyes, pouting at me like you were looking for trouble.”

If he was going to move and make it look natural, Rhys had to do it soon. Otherwise it would look as if Jack had frightened him away. Otherwise they would end up with their chests pressed together. Otherwise…

“I always figured you hired Tim because you wanted to get to me,” Jack said quietly. Rhys could smell the scotch and cigar smoke on his breath. The smell of success, of money, power. It made his head swim. A lot of old fantasies writhed like worms in the corpse of Rhys’ dead crush.

And now Jack was close, inches away, and Rhys had missed his chance at escape. And maybe he didn’t want it anyway.

“I did,” Rhys admitted, just as quiet. “I wanted to drive you insane.”

“Well.” Jack took Rhys’ drink from his unresisting hand and set it aside. “Congratulations, kiddo. You did it. Do you wanna collect your prize?”

Rhys fisted his hands into Jack’s tacky lapels, yanked him close and kissed his smiling mouth.

* * *

Guilt crested like a tidal wave, submerging Tim in a freezing instant.

Wil was just the same as he remembered. The feel of his beard against Tim’s chin and cheeks. The surprising softness of his lips. His warm hands, so tentative and almost gentle where they rested on Tim’s back. The memories Tim would bring out to examine in the light of their one night together, every time he’d felt lonely and maybe needed a little inspiration before he took himself in hand. Things he’d cherished about Wil, about that night. Things that could always bring him comfort.

And now he had the real thing, and it didn’t bring him anything.

“What’s wrong?” Wil asked.

Tim stared down at his face, feeling stupid. More than just drunk. Wil looked back, his brows furrowed, his lips pulling into a frown. Tim touched his fingers to the corner of Wil’s mouth. His heart gave a feeble twist.

“Oh no,” he said quietly. “I don’t think I can do this.”

* * *

This was it. This was exactly what Rhys had been fantasizing about for—for ages. Since his mother pursed her lips and nodded at where Jack was holding court at another table across the room and told Rhys that _that young man is one to keep an eye on_. She hadn’t meant it in a flattering way, which made Rhys pay immediate attention. Because at twenty years old, Rhys had decided that anyone who annoyed his mother was someone to watch. So he watched, and he liked what he saw.

Jack was right, although Rhys would sooner bite his tongue off than admit it. He’d wanted Jack at that party, seven years ago. He’d wanted him nearly every day after, every time Rhys thought about him, came face-to-face with him in their battlefield of reports and representatives, product launches and press releases. He’d wanted to take Jack’s stupid, ugly jacket in both of his hands and yank it off his shoulders. He’d wanted to push Jack down and kiss the laughter from his mouth.

That was then. Before Tim.

Rhys closed his eyes and focused of the feel of Jack’s—of those big hands on him, pawing at his chest, pushing his jacket off, greedy and desperate to get at his skin. Of those cupid bow lips on his, although he had to be careful. Every time he brushed his tongue against the seam of the mask, it brought him out of the moment like an ice cube dropped down the back of his shirt.

The third time it happened, Rhys broke away. He tipped his head back, baring his neck like an invitation. Rhys kept his eyes closed as J—as _he_ took it, dragging his teeth down his throat, leaving a trail of goose flesh in his wake. Rhys made a sound of protest when he felt those hands tug at the buttons his shirt.

“You’ll rip,” he grumbled.

“So take it off already,” came the growled reply.

Rhys sucked in a breath through his teeth. He fumbled with the top buttons of his shirt, ducking his head before he could catch sight of that white mask.

“Have to do everything myself around here,” he muttered. A hand slipped past the folds of his now open shirt, nails dragging across exposed skin. Rhys closed his eyes again as lips brushed against the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Fingers toyed with Rhys’ nipple, rolling it between them before tightening and twisting. Rhys cried out, jerking forward into his grip. The mouth opened and licked a quick stripe before lips sealed over the spot and began to suck a bruise.

“Let’s take this to the bedroom. What do you say, Rhysie?”

 _Boss,_ Rhys mouthed, annoyed at the intrusion into his fantasy. He nodded.

“You’ll have to open your eyes to get there.” There was an edge to that tone, but Rhys found it easy to ignore.

“Stop talking,” he said, his voice hoarse. He turned away before he opened his eyes, but when he felt the other man press against his back, felt his hands at his hips, shoving his shirt out of his slacks, he didn’t break away. They walked slowly, hindered by their attempts to get closer to each other, to pull everything apart that stood between them.

The hands at his hips found his fly and unzipped it slowly. Rhys’ knees shook when fingers slid down his stomach, past the waistband of his briefs. Rhys bit his lip when he felt them brush against soft curls, his hips twitching until finally he wrapped his hand around Rhys’ growing erection.

Rhys nearly collapsed backwards, slumped against the man’s embrace. His partner chuckled, low and mean in Rhys’ ear.

He ground his erection into Rhys’ ass. “I always figured you’d be like this. All bark in the boardroom, but as soon as there’s a chance you can get a nice dick in you, you turn into a whimpering _whore_.”

Rhys slammed his elbow backwards into something soft. He heard Jack grunt and curse but didn’t turn around to see which part of him he’d hit.

He strode to the front door, slowing only to pick up his fallen jacket. There might’ve been something clever he could’ve said, but he couldn’t think of any words. He’d already wasted enough time on Jack. He yanked the door open and left without a backwards glance.

This had gone on long enough, Rhys decided as he multitasked putting himself together and putting as much distance between himself and Jack’s hotel room. He needed to find Tim.

* * *

Jack straightened with a wince, his hand clutching his stomach. Thank Christ a little degradation sent the coiffed prick running. For a minute, Jack was afraid he’d actually have to go through with fucking him.

He rolled his shoulders, working out the tension with a sigh. No doubt Rhys had gone to pull Tim off of Wilhelm. Jack didn’t really like to think of his little brother in the arms of his absurdly large body guard slash personal trainer, but he found himself hoping Rhys found them… ugh. _In flagrante_. It was perhaps the first time Jack hoped Timmy was getting dicked, which was a testament to just how much he wanted the little stalker string-bean to fuck off out of their lives already.

Still. Jack didn’t get this far in the game by betting on only one horse. He picked Rhys’ abandoned drink from the coffee table while he fished his phone from his pocket with his other hand.

The cameras Jack had set up earlier had done their job, and it was easy to find what he was looking for.

The screen showed two small figures—one fluffy-haired dweeb dressed like he fell out of a costume shop for idiot dandies, and one very handsome man in a sharp suit. He watched with mild interest, sipping his drink until tiny Rhys grabbed Jack and kissed him. Jack winced again. The whole encounter lasted less than five minutes, but it would do.

Honestly, the things he got—and boy, was it ever worth springing for the extra audio recording devices, just for the way it caught Rhys moaning like a truck stop hooker—would be enough to sink the precious Atlas heir. Well, maybe not _sink_. But should this little video get out to the wider public, it would be enough to tank their stocks and force him into hiding for a while, and good fucking riddance to him.

The thought was tempting enough—his stomach still ached, that little bastard had sharp elbows—that Jack stared at the screen for almost two solid seconds, considering it.

“But I’m a nice guy.” Jack poured himself a new drink while his program extracted their five minute sex show, the algorithm selecting the best angles. The ones that would keep Rhys’ dumb face in view, making sure every second of the pleasure Jack had graciously bestowed on him was perfectly visible. He sat back on the bed, resting his hand on his stomach while the file compressed.

He drank and thought about Nisha. Getting elbowed had been annoying, but the ache it left behind was almost pleasant. That he even thought of pain like that was mostly her fault. He thought about her favourite pair of leather boots and the way those square heels felt when she ground them into his chest, pressed the silver tip of her pointed toe into his throat. He sent her a quick text.

It would take her a while to reply. His phone chimed in the meantime, letting him know that the file was ready to send.

With his drink in one hand, he scrolled down through his contact list until he found Tim’s name. He pressed ‘send’ and took a drink. The scotch lit up his sinuses, rolling down his throat like liquid smoke.

* * *

Rhys stomped through the halls of the hotel floor, trying to navigate what felt increasingly like a maze designed to confuse the minotaur. Or, hang on, maybe the minotaur built the maze? Rhys could not recall the exact details of the labyrinth myth, only that it involved a man with a bull’s head and a witch with a ball of twine.

Something about that combination made Rhys think of Wilhelm. Big Wilhelm with his arms and his thick neck, and all his hair. Who needed that much body hair?

Tim had a bit of fur, it was true, but it was a tasteful amount. A pleasant cover on his chest and arms, something that would provide interesting texture and create friction.

God, Rhys was horny. Drunk as hell and horny. Fuck Jack for putting him in this situation. Rhys scrubbed at his mouth for the fifth time. He’d long ago stripped the gloss away, but it didn’t matter. He could still taste Jack’s disgusting, weird mask. The feel of its seam against his tongue. Rhys shuddered and rubbed his mouth for the sixth time.

Tim. He would find Tim. Tim was the person he really wanted. But first they’d have to talk, probably. Rhys couldn’t just jump him, although he badly wanted to. Tim was the kind of person who liked to talk about things. He was sensible. Rhys liked that. He would tell Tim that he liked that, and about all the other things he liked about him.

He assembled an unfocused list as he made his way through another hall, lined with closed doors. He glared at one, wondering if maybe he should start knocking.

He pictured Wilhelm getting his stupid, big hands all over Tim and stopped wondering. He slammed his fist on the first door and started walking to the next before anyone could answer. He made his list.

The freckles were cute. The eyes, too. Rhys liked his haircut, liked the way Tim went every other week to get it maintained. He liked it even though Tim never got a different style, tried a new look. He liked Tim’s loyalty even to little things, like his favourite barber, or his favourite bagel place, or to a certain news publication, just because it was the only one that still carried his favourite comic strip (the Dick Tracy-ish one, except all the characters were animals).

Tim was not in this hall. A few people poked their heads out to yell obscenities at Rhys, but they weren’t Tim, so they didn’t matter. He moved on.

He liked that Tim stuck around. He liked that Tim looked out for him. That he wasn’t afraid to boss Rhys around. Or to speak his mind. He wasn’t afraid of Rhys at all. The things that used to get on Rhys’ nerves were the things he needed the most from Tim.

God. Rhys stopped at the corner of one hall and leaned against the wall. A wave of heat washed over him, leaving him unpleasantly lightheaded and sending the world spinning on an uneven axis. He pressed the side of his face against the cool wallpaper.

He closed his eyes, tried to hide from the feeling, but the vertigo chased him even there. He clung to the corner, desperate for stability, and tried to fix his gaze on something that wouldn’t slip away from him. He could feel the baseline of whatever song was thumping in the main hall. It sounded familiar, but everything did when he could only hear the bass.

Rhys closed his eyes again. This time it was a little easier. And then he heard voices.

“Hey. You okay, buddy?”

“Oh, that guy is _wasted_.”

“Hey, isn’t that the prick who was pounding on everyone’s door?”

 “He’s gonna yak for sure.”

“Maybe we should call someone.”

Rhys pushed his face further against the wall and prayed to the god he only spoke to while he was drunk that all these people would vanish. He just wanted to go home. He wanted to take Tim and just go home. They could lie down and maybe talk…

“Rhys?”

Rhys must’ve been falling into a doze, because he felt himself jerk into awareness at the sound of Tim’s voice. And it was _Tim_ and not Jack, and Rhys could always tell the difference.

“Holy shit, is that the Atlas CEO?”

“Hey, what the _fuck_ are you guys doing?” Tim’s voice as commanding and sharp as a slap in the face. “Back off. Go back to sucking down free drinks at the bar.” His arm wrapped around Rhys’ chest, under his armpits.

“Looks like this guy’s been doing that plenty,” someone said with a snigger. They fell silent very quickly. Rhys heard departing footsteps and finally relaxed.

Tim huffed in Rhys’ ear. “Where’ve you been, boss? I’ve been looking for you for, like, twenty minutes.”

Rhys leaned into the solid, steady weight of him. He turned his head, pushed his face into Tim’s hair, felt the short strands tickle his nose. He smelled like rain, Rhys was pleased to discover. Like flowers and lemon, and clean linens.

“I got drunk,” Rhys mumbled.

Tim scoffed. “Well, that makes two of us. Why are you giggling?”

“Because you threatened people for me,” Rhys said. He opened his eyes at last, because he knew that Tim would turn pink. He watched that flush travel up his neck, curl around the back of his ears.

“I didn’t threaten anyone. I just told them to fuck off.” Tim scowled. Rhys only laughed at him again.

He liked this too, how sweetly flustered Tim would get every time Rhys gave him a taste of his own medicine. It made Rhys think of all the boys in his academy, the ones who’d sprung up like weeds, with hair like bristles on a broom, noses that they would one day grow into, big eyes and big brows. Tim looked like the kind of man who’d gone through an awkward phase in his youth. There must be pictures somewhere…

Tim was walking them out of the hall. Rhys could hear the thumping bass grow fainter, like a dying pulse. He didn’t realise he was humming until he started mumbling words.

“You still got Carly Rae on the mind, I see,” Tim said.

“She was playing earlier,” Rhys said, turning to nose at Tim’s hair again. “Wish you could’ve heard her.”

“Boy, you’re like my cats right now. How many did you have?” Tim asked.

It took Rhys a moment to work out what Tim was asking. By the time he did, they were at the bank of elevators. Tim pushed the call button, adjusting his grip on Rhys’ side, while Rhys tried to count.

“Many,” Rhys said at last. “I forget.”

Tim chuckled. “Yeah. Me too.”

Rhys frowned as the elevator chimed and the doors parted. “You were supposed to call me,” he said.

“You’re right. My bad.” Tim lead them into the car and hit the button for the lobby. “We shouldn’t have gotten separated in the first place,” he said.

Rhys let his eyes slip shut, pushed further into Tim’s space, until he could feel the bristle of Tim’s hair against his lips.

“What are you trying to do there?” Tim asked.

“I got some stuff I wanted t’tell you,” Rhys mumbled.

“Okay. What does that have to do with your attempts to, like, eat my hair?” Tim’s words came out soft and warm with amusement.

“I’m not,” Rhys said. The elevator slowed to a stop and a smooth woman’s voice informed them they had arrived at the lobby. “Just smells nice.”

“I’m glad you approve. Alright, c’mon.” He grunted as he hauled Rhys out into the main room.

The air was colder down here, sheets of it coming in from the bank of revolving doors at the other side of the lobby. The first hints of what was certainly a bracing winter night did something to rouse Rhys from his semi-doze.

He groaned. “I should’ve brought a coat. Why didn’t I bring a coat?”

“We’ll only be outside for thirty seconds,” Tim said. Rhys groaned again. “Maybe less. Stay strong, boss.”

“You’ll have to keep me warm,” Rhys said, half draping himself over Tim. He felt the vibration of Tim’s laughter through his chest.

Tiny music began to play from somewhere close to them both. Rhys stirred once again, frowning down at the pocket he’d stored his phone.

“Wha—?” He started to paw at his slacks.

“It’s mine,” Tim said with a sigh. “That’s Jack’s ringtone.”

Rhys’ blood turned to ice. They paused in front of the doors as Tim frowned at his screen.

“Weird of him to call during his party,” Tim muttered.

“Tim.” Rhys certainly felt awake now. “Tim, just ignore it. You don’t need—“

But Tim had already accepted the call. He held the device to his face and frowned when he heard a tinny voice ask if someone wanted to collect a prize.

Oh god.

Tim lowered his phone, and they were both able to see the video playing out on screen. Of Rhys. Of Jack. Of Rhys grabbing Jack and kissing him. Of their hands on each other.

Tim stared. All the colour drained from his face, taking any trace of expression with it. His arm slipped from where it held Rhys, recoiling.

“Tim,” Rhys tied, stumbling a little as he was forced to support his own weight. _“Tim_.”

Tim stepped away, turned from Rhys, one hand holding his phone and the other pressed over his mouth.

Rhys felt it all slip away from him, sliding like mercury through his fingers. He tried to follow Tim, but Tim walked away from him abruptly, making right for the exits, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

Rhys scrambled after him, his feet unsteady—unsteadier than Tim’s, who crossed the lobby with easy strides. He shoved his way through the revolving door, bringing a fresh wave of ice inside. Rhys stumbled after him, turning in the glass wedge until the winter night shoved cold air into his face and bared neck.

“Tim, wait!” Tim had made his way to the bank of waiting own and fleet of hirable vehicles. “Tim, please! Please, wait!”

Rhys hadn’t expected it to work, but there must’ve been something in his voice. Maybe some desperation crackling in his words like static. Tim stopped, but he did not turn.

Rhys felt winded, although he had not run far. The cold air felt shriveling as he breathed it in, shrinking his lungs and his throat. The sky looked eerily orange, glowing from the lights of the city reflecting off of the blanket of snow that’d fallen days before. It washed everything in shades of fire, making it all look lurid.

“Tim,” he panted, “it’s not what it looks like.” Which both was and was not true, in ways that Rhys felt inadequate to explain. He wanted to put into words what he’d felt in Jack’s embrace—how it’d been Tim on his mind, and not just then, but all night. And the night before, and the one before that. But he couldn’t find the right ones. His tongue felt as drunk as the rest of him.

Tim rubbed his face, sniffed.

“Alright, Rhys,” he said, voice calm. He turned, and Rhys saw that his face was flushed, splotched red over his cheeks, and his eyes were bright. “Alright. Tell me, then. Tell me how it’s not what it looks like. Because what it looks like to me? Is that you went and fucked my brother.” His voice trembled at the last word, like something small and frightened.

Heat washed over Rhys, a mixture of embarrassment and anger. “I didn’t f—!” He stopped, went on in a quiet hiss. “I didn’t _fuck_ Jack. I just… We were only…”

Tim watched Rhys. The light above them cast strange shadows over the drama of his face. His lips were pulled into a tight, trembling wire. His chest heaved with each breath, every exhale streaming from his nose in a twist of vapour. He waited for Rhys.

Rhys waited for himself to arrive. This situation was salvageable. It was bad, but he’d talked his way out of worse scrapes. He just had to remember how to be the guy who could pull a win from the fire.

He collected himself. “It wasn’t serious,” he said. “I’d been drinking and I, I met with Jack on the dance floor. I found Nisha.” The story fell out of Rhys’ mouth like puzzle pieces tumbling from an upturned box. “I saw her, and I saw that you were gone, and then I saw her alone. Which meant you were alone— except you weren’t, because that— _Wilhelm_ was with you.”

Tim’s jaw flexed. “What the hell does that have to do with you and— and what you were doing with Jack.”

It did have something to do with it. Rhys knew the connection instinctively, but the words wouldn’t come.

“You were—busy. You were with him. I didn’t like thinking of you with him,” Rhys said.

Tim’s face contracted. “That’s— Okay. You felt jealous about me and Wil so you decided to—what? Fuck my twin brother over it?”

Rhys gaped at him. The word ‘Wil’ spoken so casually from Tim sparked a fresh wave of anger. “I told you, I didn’t fuck him!” he snapped.

Tim laughed without an ounce of humour, the sound like gasoline on the hearth of Rhys’ rage. If Rhys had his head on straight, he would know what to do with it. He would know to temper it, stretch it thin and let it cool, and use its stronger edge in a more precise way. But Rhys’ head hadn’t been straight for hours. Longer, maybe. It could never seem to get quite right when Tim was concerned.

“So, you wanted to hurt me. Is that what you’re saying?” Tim demanded with a sneer.

“No, I didn’t—!” Rhys started, but he couldn’t tell anymore if that was the truth. “I wasn’t thinking like that,” he tried instead. “It wasn’t like I’d— It didn’t _mean_ anything.”

Oh, that was the wrong thing to say. Tim’s expression twisted. “This is why you hired me. Isn’t it?” he asked.

“N—“ But that was true. Rhys had all but admitted it during their first week together.

Tim watched Rhys for a moment. He shook his head when Rhys said nothing in his defense. “Right. You know, I’d always figured you hated him. I thought you were just trying to score a point in some petty game. But that wasn’t it, was it? You wanted his attention.” Tim’s voice thickened. Rhys opened his mouth but Tim cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Don’t. You think you’re the first? You’re like the rest of the scavengers, picking off the weaker, shittier twin because you couldn’t get the time of day with the good one.”

“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t left with _Wil_ ,” Rhys spat.

“Are you _fucking kidding me, Rhys_?” Tim stalked forward suddenly, his anger flaring hot behind his eyes. Rhys squared his shoulders, more than ready for the challenge. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, you know that? What right do you have to get jealous over me and Wil, anyway?” Tim asked, carelessly throwing another match onto the climbing fire.

Rhys laughed in Tim’s reddening face. _“Me_? You’re the one who’s jealous! All that shit about your insecurity— your— your weakness, or whatever. It’s not my fault you’ve got a— a— a pathetic complex about your stupid brother. Just because he’s more successful, because he’s smarter and more powerful than you. Grow up, Tim.

“And yes, you’re right! I liked Jack. I hired you because I liked him and I wanted his attention and I knew you could get it for me. Is that what you wanted to hear? I’d crushed on him for years before I met you. Even if I had fucked him—which I haven’t! But if I had, you don’t have any right to angry with me over it! It’s not like we’re…”

Rhys’ voice shrank and died in his throat, taking his anger with it, both snuffed out by the look on Tim’s face. Without it, Rhys was left in the cold.

Tim looked at Rhys like he’d slit him open and pulled all the soft parts inside of him out.

And then it was gone. Tim looked away, his expression closed off like the blinds had been pulled. He wouldn’t look at Rhys, but at the road, at the lamp high above. The clouds above them finally made good on their day-long threat, and snow shook loose from where they held the sky.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “We aren’t really anything, are we? I thought…” His voice shook. He sniffed, blinking hard. “Whatever. You know, someone asked me today of the one thing that makes me happiest in my life? I actually thought of you.”

Oh no. Rhys did not want to hear that.

“But, _Christ_ , Rhys.” The words emerged in an exhale of vapour, twisting around his face in the breeze. “You make me so fucking miserable.”

A sound like a wounded animal might make emerged from Rhys. He reached for Tim, stepping forward, but Tim shrank back. He drew his arms tight around himself, crossing them in a barrier against Rhys.

“I can’t do this anymore, Rhys.” He blinked, and his eyes overflowed. “I quit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr: nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to look right at you, baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets extremely explicit, and features some mild BDSM themes.
> 
> Soundtrack reminder: https://open.spotify.com/user/wheatfromchaff/playlist/7GLi2v7EaNrvqwIRgr8ENh

Rhys had forgotten just how bad a hangover could be. He supposed this was his own fault. After several years of keeping himself to one or—very rarely—two drink minimums, he went and got himself hammered. He’d been so good until last night. At every party, every catered meeting, every business lunch—

Pain speared his heart like he’d swallowed a fish bone.

At all of those events, he’d kept his mind clear. Rhys could waste time asking himself why he might’ve decided to get smashed yesterday, but he had other things on his plate. Such as leaving his bed.

His phone was on the other side of the room, lying on the floor. Rhys supposed he should get up and check to see if the screen had cracked, but every time he looked at it, at its plastic shell shining like a scorpion’s carapace, he felt that same splintering, fish bone sensation in his lungs and in his chest.

His eyes were dry and his face was sticky, cheeks tacky to the touch. He pushed himself up with a groan and saw the peach smear of his foundation on his pillow. The setting spray his make-up artist used was supposed to be bullet proof, but maybe it couldn’t hold up against salted water.

God. Rhys rubbed at his head. Getting home was a blur. He could dimly remember crawling into the belly of his car, activating the DD settings, deactivating some safety settings, and lying down across the back seat. He could remember the way the passing lights flashed on the ceiling, red and yellow and orange. He remembered the glow of his phone, blue-green like an aquarium and so close to his face. Calling and calling, but the line wouldn’t connect.

Rhys scraped himself out of his bed. He grabbed his pillow and peeled the case free. Even doing that felt like a heroic effort. He walked past his phone and out of his room, into his laundry room. He shoved the pillow case and his pajamas into the mouth of the machine, closed it with a snap that made him wince, and started the wash cycle. Then he closed his eyes and stood naked in front of the washing machine for a while, his mind drifting, as he tried to gather another reserve of energy.

When he found it, he used it to push himself into the washroom. Part of him wanted to lie in the tub and turn on all the jets, to pour the expensive bubble baths he got in those gift baskets (another stab in the chest) into the water and sink into sweetly scented oblivion, but he couldn’t make himself do anything more than stare.

He turned on all the spouts in his shower, ran the water hot and stood under the spray until his skin turned pink. He washed himself in slow motion, pausing to just let the water hit him in the places that were still sore, which felt like everywhere. He ducked his head and let it drum against his skull. He could still taste bile at the back of his teeth. He opened his mouth and rinsed it out with too-hot water. He did it a second time. Then he sank down and sat under the spray until the room filled with steam.

How much did he have to drink last night? He’d started with wine, and then he’d moved onto those sweet drinks, flavoured vodka and creamy concoctions that’d gone down too smooth and too quick. Then he’d gone to spirits, to amber scotch that tasted like smoke, poured from an expensive crystal decanter…

Rhys sniffed, his breathing hitched. He bowed his head between his knees and waited until he felt calm again.

Breakfast (lunch? brunch?) was a box of rice crackers, which he decided he would eat in bed. He wrapped himself in a thick, warm robe, crawled under his duvet, and turned on the television. He flicked through streaming services, looking for some hangover comfort food. His usual go-to would’ve been a romantic comedy, preferably something with Sandra Bullock or Reese Witherspoon. Even the sight of The Proposal’s movie poster made Rhys want to throw semi-digested puffed rice up all over his sheets.

He tried to watch Parks & Rec, but only made it ten minutes into an episode, when a simple shot of Ben smiling at Leslie made a lump rise in his throat. He switched to The Office but could only make two minutes past the opening credits before Pam looked over at Jim and Rashida Jones’ character with wet eyes. He almost got through an entire episode of Brooklyn 99, but Jake kissed Amy in a moment of pure joy and Rhys couldn’t take it anymore. His eyes were stinging by the time he flipped the channel off. Workplace comedies were stupid anyway.

He settled on the Mythbusters. When he grew tired of that, he flipped over to Ghost Hunters. After that, Top Gear. He watched mindless television until the sound of it filled his head like static and he couldn’t think of anything else. He spent Saturday in bed. He left his phone on the floor.

On Sunday, he woke up disturbed to find that while he felt a little better, he was almost certainly still hungover.

He retrieved his laundry from the machine, where he’d forgotten to take it out the night before. He ran it again and instructed the apartment to remind him when it was finished. His apartment agreed, and, now roused from Do Not Disturb mode, informed him that he had messages waiting for him and his phone had 2% battery life remaining.

Rhys ate four fried eggs for breakfast, with half a tub of guacamole, toast and almost all of the organic salsa he’d bought at a farmer’s market. It settled fine, although his stomach complained a little.

He cleaned up his kitchen, wiping down the counters for good measure. He swept the floor. He went for another shower but decided to make it a bath at the last second. He lit candles and poured his peony and citrus-scented bubble bath into the churning water. He settled in, resting his back against the jets, placed his head on the roll pillow and drifted.

His apartment notified him when the laundry load had completed. It then told him that he had received new messages, and his phone was at 1% battery.

Rhys dried off, applied a face mask, wrapped himself in a clean robe, and flipped his laundry.

He washed the mask off, took a moment to admire his smooth, soft skin, and threw on a pair of cotton draw-string pants and an old t-shirt. He grabbed another box of rice crackers and ate it with chive-flavoured cream cheese. He watched another season of Top Gear, and then a few more episodes of Ghost Hunters.

He stayed on his couch, wrapped up in a blanket, watching brainless reality television until his apartment informed him that his laundry was finished. His phone was at 0.3% battery life and needed to be plugged in immediately.

Rhys sighed and let his head fall back against the couch. He shook the crumbs out of his blanket, stood up and finally made his way towards his bedroom.

He stared at his fallen phone, clenching and unclenching his hand.

It would be fine, he told himself. It was a phone. There was nothing to be frightened of.

He’d felt so good, before. Well, not _good_ , exactly, but he’d felt okay. He felt like he’d crawled into a bubble of his cozy Sunday and the phone was a needle.

But it was already 4pm, and Rhys had to face this sooner or later. He’d faced worse things. Things that could’ve cost his company millions, that could’ve lost people jobs, that could’ve incurred his mother’s wrath. He’d come back from it all with a spring in his step, ready to fight another day. This should not have been any different. It wasn’t the end of the world.

Slowly, finally, he bent down and picked up his phone.

The screen wasn’t cracked, although there was a bubble of air under the protective film he’d placed over it. The notification light was blinking. Rhys took a breath, steeled himself, and thumbed the home button.

Notifications filled his screen. Missed calls, emails, texts, private messages on social media. It was the usual volume, sent from the usual suspects. All except for one.

Tim hadn’t sent him anything. Not a word, not a message, not a single missed call. Nothing.

Rhys plugged his phone into the station beside his bed. He sat down, his legs shaking, and held it while he tried to think of what to do next. The bubble had popped, and his head filled with the sound of rushing air.

He could fix this, couldn’t he? They’d both had time to cool off. He could send Tim a message. Something short. Maybe just ask if he was planning to come into work on Monday. No—he should tell Tim that he wanted him to come back. Tell him that he wanted to talk.

Rhys opened Tim’s contact information, wincing at the number of calls he’d made on Friday night. He couldn’t remember if he’d left a message on his voicemail. The end of the night dissolved in his mind like a damaged recording. He could remember the lights, and his phone beside his face. He could remember the grip of misery so strong his whole body shook, wracked with it.

It ached like a fresh bruise. It made Rhys feel weighted, like he’d swallowed stones. He opened the messenger app, called up the on-screen keyboard, and stared at his phone.

* * *

Rhys tossed and turned that night. He composed messages in his head like sonnets, letting them sprawl through his mind until it began to teeter on the edge of sleep, and they grew less focused, thoughts unspooling like skeins of yarn dropped down a flight of stairs, until it slipped into the dream.

Rhys thought of a dozen different ways to tell Tim that he never meant it, that the thing with Jack was about Tim, not the other way around.

That it’d been a mistake, one of the worst Rhys had ever made.

That he missed him.

That he would give up anything, everything, for the chance to explain himself in person. For Tim to give him a second chance.

He dreamt about Tim. That he’d come back to Rhys, angry but willing to listen. The feeling of hope carried through into the waking world, where it lived for a brief and wonderful moment while Rhys nestled under the covers, relishing it.

Rhys’ security came to pick him up at the usual time. It was dark out when he left his building, and it would be dark for hours after. He rode his car in silence. Checked his phone four separate times in the ten minutes it took him to arrive. Tim would be awake by now. If he was coming, he would be leaving his apartment soon.

Rhys worked as best he could. He flicked through the stack of emails, starting one and then remembering something, becoming distracted, and starting another one. He checked the time nearly every minute. He checked his phone almost as frequently. At 7:28am he gave up all pretense of working and watched the door.

He continued watching as the time ticked over to 7:32am. Until it was 7:35am, 7:41am. He looked away only when the system informed him that Todd’s ID had been checked in. He stared at his desk.

There were things he had to do now. He needed to send Todd back out to fetch his breakfast and coffee. He needed to call Athena and ask her to beef up his personal security detail. He needed to inform HR. He still had a pile of correspondences waiting his input. He had a meeting with the head of finances to discuss their year end. The R&D department wanted to present their latest prototype for approval after lunch. He had to tell Todd his lunch order.

He had to apply his make-up.

Rhys set his stylus down. He put his head in his hands and began to cry.

* * *

The week passed in a blur. Rhys adjusted to life without Tim.

Todd started coming in earlier, picking up Rhys’ breakfast order and coffee on his way in. He seemed pleased to have the opportunity to worm his way into the gaps of Rhys’ working day that Tim had left behind. More than once, he offered to do Rhys’ make-up. Rhys always turned him down. He couldn’t bear the thought of someone else opening that drawer. Although he would have to, eventually. He spent the week looking tired.

Rhys spoke with Athena to arrange a new security detail. She didn’t comment on it, although he’d expected her to. She asked if he wanted someone assigned to work in the office with him, but Rhys quickly shot her down. Athena fell silent for what felt like a long time after that.

Rhys had told himself he would be good. He would maintain professionalism. But his resolve cracked under the weight of her silence, and he asked, “Have you heard anything from…” He took a breath and forced himself to continue. He’d gotten this far. “From Tim?”

“I have.” Athena sounded weary.

“Is he…?” But that was as far as Rhys’ courage could take him.

Athena waited. And then she sighed. “He’s fine. Alive. He’s being looked after.”

By Wilhelm? Rhys wanted to ask. And then he felt bad for wondering. It was none of his business.

“Oh,” he said. “Okay.” Athena ended the call.

Rhys limped through the week. It was easier at work, where he had things to do, things to keep his mind occupied. It was harder at home. He could bring work with him, but he felt guilty every time he tried. Instead he sat down in front of his television and filled the hours until he could reasonably crawl into his bed and try to sleep.

He composed more messages to Tim. He wrote them out in his head while he stared at the dark ceiling. Things too long to say over text, things he would have to send via email. Or maybe he could write a letter.

Rhys imagined it, sending a multi-page letter through the mail, something written in ink, some words crossed out and others underlined, although he could not remember the last time he’d written something in longhand. Tim had always seemed like the sort of man who would appreciate that kind of gesture.

In the few times Rhys bullied himself into putting something down on paper or on the screen, his words dried up and the sentences he ended up with sounded limp, weak as damp cardboard. He could never send Tim something so poorly made. It would only make things worse.

_I’m sorry, Tim. I’m sorry for all of it. I’m sorry I was too much of a coward to tell you how I felt. I don’t know why I was so afraid. This is so much worse._

Worthless. Rhys deleted every half-formed message. Tim deserved better than Rhys’ words.

Tim deserved better than Rhys.

By Friday, Rhys had begun to come to terms with the change in his life. He felt ready to imagine his future without Tim, even if the thought made him want to curl up under a blanket, turn off all the lights, and listen to every sad song that’d been written from the year he was born until the present. By Friday, on Christmas Eve, Rhys felt ready to begin grieving what they almost had, and what they did have.

On Friday, on Christmas Eve, during Rhys’ ride home from work, his phone chimed a notification that he’d received a message from Timothy Lawrence.

Tim: hey.

Tim: can i come over?

Tim: it won’t take long.

* * *

What followed was perhaps the most stressful seventeen minutes and forty one seconds of Rhys’ life.

He scrambled into his washroom to fix his hair (he’d pushed it out of its style several times during the day), apply a quick coating of CC cream, setting it with a white powder (some concealer probably would’ve helped but Rhys was on a time limit), and spritzed his wrists and neck with a small mist of Tom Ford Azure Lime cologne. He changed out of the shirt he’d been wearing for the last two days and into a clean, navy blue button-up. After some dithering, he threw a heather grey vest over it. He clipped on a Piguet watch, his fingers shaking as he tried to tighten the leather strap. He examined himself in the mirror and tried to find confidence in his appearance.

His stomach flipped over itself. He fingered the buttons of his vest and considered trying a completely different outfit when his virtual doorman informed notified him that his guest had arrived.

Rhys stood, staring helplessly at the entrance alcove. He tried to think of something he could do—a magazine or a book he could be flipping through when Tim arrived. He could summon screens from his work station. He raised a hand to shove through his hair but caught himself in time.

In the end, he just stood in the entrance, waiting for the elevator to arrive.

He flinched at the sound of the chime. The doors parted and Tim was standing there.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” Rhys said. “You look good.”

He was dressed for the winter, although not very well. A black, woolen pea coat, cracked leather gloves, dark wash jeans and heavy boots. He had the straps of a reusable bag held in one hand. His cheeks were red, wind-blistered. He looked cold.

Rhys wanted to wrap his hands around the delicate red crescents of his ears. Breathe warmth into the space between his neck and collar. Pull him inside, make him some hot cocoa, sit him down on the couch and wrap him up in a fleece blanket.

Tim gave him a wry smile. For the first time since he’d come in, Rhys could see the circles under his eyes. “It’s only been a week, Rhys.”

“Oh,” Rhys said, like it was news to him. It’d felt longer.

“Um. Look.” Tim turned his gaze away, rubbed the back of his neck with his gloved hand. A gesture that sparked a fresh wave of longing. “I’ve got a flight to catch, so I’ll just get right to it. I’m, uh. The last time we talked, I said some things that I don’t really… Things I’m not really proud of.” He winced. “See, I’d… kind of had a thing for you for a while and, um.” He cleared his throat. “I handled it badly. I… usually do.” A brief, unhappy smile flashed over his face. “I’m sorry, Rhys.”

Rhys felt too stunned to reply, or to do anything but stare.

Tim cleared his throat again and looked away. “Anyway, that’s not really the reason I’m here. Well, not the full reason. Uh. I kind of started this project a few months ago, when I thought…” He looked around, the skin on his cheeks turning pink. “That your place seemed kind of… sterile. Lonely, I guess. I tried to think of something I could… Ah, I’m just rambling, I’m sorry. I got you something. It’s been sitting on my table all week and I’m tired of looking at it. It’s yours.” He thrust the bag out to Rhys.

“What… What is it?” Rhys asked, accepting it carefully. It was heavy.

Tim’s smile grew lopsided. “You’re supposed to open it to find out. That’s kind of how the gift thing works. Come on,” he said while Rhys scowled. “You’ll want a shelf or something to put it on. Let’s go inside.”

Tim didn’t take off his coat or his boots as he followed Rhys into his kitchen, where he set the wrapped package on the island. He watched eagerly as Rhys ripped the paper off, revealing a wooden box roughly the size of a microwave, with glass panes as walls. It looked like an aquarium.

“It’s a glass box?” Rhys crouched to get a better look. “With plants?”

“It’s a portable greenhouse,” Tim said, joining Rhys. “I made the frame but had a professional install the glass. There’s a lid here.” He lifted a panel on the top. “So you can water your plants.”

Tim stood beside Rhys, close enough that his sleeve brushed against Rhys as he spoke. Rhys could smell snow and salt on his coat. He stared at Tim while he went on.

“They’re all useful plants. I got you a tomato, a basil, and a jalapeno. If you take good care of them, you’ll probably need to rehome them in something larger but you can—you can hire someone to build something for you,” he said.

“I could make a pasta sauce,” Rhys said weakly. Tim smiled at him, a look that would’ve melted the stone heart of any tyrant.

“You need something in this place,” Tim said, his smile fading. “A pet seemed like a tall order. You know you’ll have to come home to water this thing, right? No more all-nighters at the office.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Rhys said, and he knew that he would. He wouldn’t let a single leaf wilt. “I promise.”

“Okay. Good.” Tim’s gaze sank down to the greenhouse, where Rhys had placed his hand like a defendant swearing on the bible. Inches from where Tim held the panel open.

He closed it carefully, gave it a little pat. “Okay,” Tim said again, clearing his throat. “I should, uh.” He looked at the entrance, where the elevator stood waiting for him.

“Wait!” Panic flared like a blown fuse in Rhys’ chest. “I— So soon?”

Tim rolled his shoulders and rubbed at the juncture of his neck, like he was stiff all over. “I got a flight, so…”

“I— There’s something— For you. I— I got you something. Something else, I mean.”

All the expression vanished from Tim’s face. “Rhys, I don’t need—“

“Please,” Rhys said. “It’s… It’s like what you said. It’s yours. Please.”

Tim’s gaze flicked to his face. Rhys didn’t have enough time or energy to arrange it to look how he wanted to look. Tim must’ve seen something in it, though. He sighed, and nodded.

Rhys retreated to his bedroom, where he stood for a second in the dark, breathing.

He opened his closet and found the large, wicker basket tucked into the corner. He pulled out the project he’d been working on over the last few weeks, before everything blew up in his face—the thing he could never bring himself to think of as ‘Tim’s gift’. He did now and hunted for a gift bag.

He emerged to find Tim still at the island, staring down at the marble counter top, his expression soft, lost.

“Sorry for the wait,” Rhys said. Tim snapped back to attention.

“It’s fine,” he said as Rhys held the bag out to him. “What’s this?”

Rhys gave him a look. Tim grinned. He took the gift bag—a powder blue bag with a cartoon puppy, something Kalandra must’ve gotten for someone’s baby shower—and peered inside.

Rhys bit the inside of his cheek and made himself wait. Tim’s brow furrowed. He looked up at Rhys.

“Is this…?” He reached inside and pulled out a long fold of knitted green and blue wool. “A scarf?”

“There’s a hat and mittens, too. Sorry they’re not gloves,” Rhys said. “I don’t really know how to make gloves.”

Tim’s eyebrows shot up. “You _made_ this?” Rhys nodded, swallowing. “You know how to _knit_?”

“I picked up the hobby in university,” Rhys said, shifting on his feet. “A therapist recommended I start because it was kind of like coding and it would help keep my hands and occupied. Supposed to help with, um, anxiety.” While he spoke, Tim pulled the long scarf free, his eyes wide. “I’m, you know, rich, so people don’t really want handmade gifts from me...”

“It has a fringe,” Tim said, sounding delighted. “And are those cats? You knit little cats?”

“They’re not perfect,” Rhys said, because he could only ever see his mistakes.

“They’re so cute. And the mittens—you put paws on the mittens?” Tim laughed, delighted. Rhys smiled. “Oh, man. Angel’s gonna love this. How long did—” Tim’s voice hitched suddenly and he stopped, ducking his head. His expression contracted, his face turned red.

Rhys’ smile dropped, his earlier relief evaporating like steam.

Tim took in a long breath. He buried his nose in the scarf and closed his eyes. He looked pained.

“Tim?” Rhys raised his hand, uncertain if he should reach out.

Tim let out a quiet sigh. He straightened with a sharp inhale, his expression schooled once more. He smiled at Rhys.

“This is really great. Thank you, Rhys,” Tim said. His eyes looked suspiciously wet.

“You’ll have to wear it all winter,” Rhys said, his voice wobbling. His eyes stung. “No more walking around without a scarf and hat. You— You’ll need to stay warm. Look after yourself.”

Tim nodded. His smile was impossibly, painfully kind and Rhys couldn’t take it anymore. If he looked a second longer, he would lose it. He would break into sobs and beg Tim to stay. He would get on his knees.

Tim looked away first, just as Rhys’ legs began to weaken.

“I’ve got…” he started, his voice tight. “Um. My flight. I should…” He gestured to the elevator.

“Oh.” It was as if all the air had rushed out of the room. “Right.”

Tim gave him one last, pained smile. He nodded, turned, and began to walk away. Rhys watched him, rooted to the spot.

Tim hesitated. He spun around, crossed the room quickly, and placed his hand on Rhys’ shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Rhys,” he said, and kissed him on the cheek. And then he left.

Rhys watched him go, like a useless actor who hadn’t been given any direction. “Bye,” he whispered. But the elevator doors had closed, and Tim was already gone.

* * *

Rhys flinched as if someone had snapped their fingers in front of his face.

He was moving before he understood what he was doing, sliding into his entrance, coming to a stop in front of his elevator where he slammed his finger on the call button again and again. He watched the display for less than a second before he turned away in disgust and made for the stairwell. The door unlocked with a cheerful chime just as he touched the knob and wrenched the door open.

He jogged down three flights of stairs before he ripped another door open and rushed to the bank of elevators. He called another, but once again he was made to wait for a second and he didn’t have any seconds to spare. He sprinted to the stairs and jogged down another five flights, until he found an elevator that would come when it was called.

He rode it down to the lobby, his heart thrashing like a desperate bird in a too-small cage. He stared at the descending numbers, jamming his thumb again and again on the button labelled ‘L’. He wouldn’t let Tim slip away. Not again. Not when his second chance was so close.

_I’d… kind of had a thing for you for a while._

The past tense had stung so much at the time that Rhys had let the moment pass like an idiot. Not again. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

It took twenty years, but the elevator finally opened onto the lobby and Rhys took off like a shot, past startled guests and his security, out into the street where the cold air snapped like a bear trap over his chest and neck. He stopped, his breath puffing out as white clouds from his mouth, and scanned the cars parked at the curb, looking for the one Tim might conceivably take to the airport.

He didn’t see any. He didn’t see Tim. He must’ve missed him.

“No,” Rhys mumbled, as he fished his phone from his back pocket. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no. No, no, no.” He typed with shaking fingers, pulling Tim’s contact information up and hitting the call button. “No, no, no, no, please. Please, please…” His voice lowered to a trembling whisper.

It wasn’t too late. He would call Tim and ask him to turn around and come back and they could talk. Rhys could tell him everything and he could fix this.

Rhys waited, teeth clicking as the wind picked up. The call connected at last and he heard it ring…

_“…and this is crazy, but here’s my number …”_

The tinniest recording of “Call Me Maybe” in the world played from somewhere behind Rhys. Rhys turned, his hand sinking.

Tim stood behind him, in the lee of the building’s entrance, half-hidden in shadow. He stared at Rhys, his eyes just visible above his blue and green scarf.

“Tim.” All the momentum that’d flung Rhys from his apartment like a shot arrow evaporated, leaving him marooned in the moment.

Tim tugged down his scarf as Rhys spoke. His closed the distance between them in three strides, his expression blank.

“Tim. I… There’s something I want to tell you…” Rhys tried as Tim took his face in both hands and—

kissed him.

Rhys’ phone slipped from his numb fingers. He wrapped his arms around Tim’s wide shoulders and gripped him tight, tried to pull him closer. Tim stumbled, but he didn’t break away from Rhys. He kissed him urgently, the way star-crossed lovers kiss in the rain. Hot and warm, mouths open, their breaths mingling, holding Rhys like he was afraid of Rhys leaving.

Someone wolf whistled. Another person shouted for them to get a room. Tim and Rhys pulled apart slowly, reluctantly, but neither of them could release the other.

Tim searched Rhys’ face. He licked his lips. “You had something you wanted to tell me?” he asked, voice rough. Rhys nodded. Tim leaned forward, his lips brushing against Rhys’ once more. “Tell me upstairs.” 

* * *

They stayed decent during the walk to the elevator, even though it was all the way on the other side of the lobby. Atlas security eyed Tim in confusion as he hurried past. It was the third time in less than ten minutes she’d watched Tim come through the lobby.

Rhys hit the call button three times, rapid fire, and bounced a little on his heels as he watched the numbers tick down.

Tim stood at his side, his hand wrapped up tightly with Rhys’, practically vibrating with pent up energy. With want.

A woman with a stroller gave them a sidelong look, her gaze flicking down.

Tim followed it, and noticed for the first time that Rhys had come all the way down wearing only his slippers. The once-white fabric had turned grey from the melting snow, the grit and salt in the slush. Tim touched his fingers to his scarf, feeling that same, strange wave of fondness he’d felt in Rhys’ apartment, threatening to submerge him once more. He gave Rhys’ hand a squeeze.

Rhys half-turned his head, met Tim’s eye and gave him a loose, goofy grin.

It was the longest five minutes of Tim’s life. He watched the number display as they ascended, because if he knew that if he let himself look at Rhys, his resolve would snap like cheap straw and he would have to put his hands on him. He would have to kiss him. He might never stop.

They rode up in pained silence, energy thrumming between them, until the woman with the stroller left them on the fifteenth floor. Tim turned to Rhys before the doors even slid shut. Rhys was already reaching for him.

Tim could not remember the last time he’d honest to god made out with someone. He could scarcely believe he was doing it now, riding the elevator up to Rhys’ penthouse apartment. Tim ran one hand down Rhys’ back, cupped his neck, pushed his collar down and felt where the skin had turned to gooseflesh in the cold. He pulled Rhys close, wrapped his arm around his waist and pressed him tight.

Rhys’ hands were equally busy, tugging Tim’s buttons loose until he could get his coat open. He thrust his arms inside, wrapping them around Tim’s waist, pulling Tim around him like a blanket.

“Poor… Poor Rhys,” Tim mumbled between kisses. “You’re so… so cold.” He wrapped his warm hand around the back of Rhys’ neck, his thumb rubbing against Rhys’ curls.

Rhys shivered as Tim nibbled his lips, his hands tugging at Tim’s sweater. He slipped his hands under the hem. Tim flinched when he felt his cold cybernetic press against his lower back.

“’s your fault,” Rhys said, his fingers working their way under the waistline of Tim’s jeans. He tipped his head back as Tim nosed at his cheek, kissing the line of his jaw. “You’re the one… who made me come all the way downstairs. You should’ve—mm. Should’ve stayed with me.”

Tim took the soft flesh of Rhys’ ear between his teeth and tugged. A small moan slipped from Rhys. “You shouldn’t have let me leave,” Tim growled as Rhys curled around him.

The elevator decelerated and the doors slid open. Rhys grabbed Tim by his lapels and dragged him inside. Tim resisted as he tried to pull him past the entrance and into the living area, and the look Rhys gave him could’ve melted plastic.

“Boots,” Tim said, laughing as Rhys crowded him once more. “Snow. You’ll give me hell tomorrow if I track muck into your nice apartment.”

“Then take them off.” Bossy, even here. Especially here, Tim hoped.

Rhys pushed Tim’s jacket off his shoulders while Tim tried to kick his boots off without bending down or falling over.

“Careful,” Tim said as Rhys started to tug at his scarf. “That’s my new scarf. I’d hate for something to happen to it.”

Rhys huffed. “I’ll knit you another one. Clothes off, Tim. Now.”

Oh god. Tim was weak to Rhys’ orders at the best of times, but hearing his voice sound strained, rough like this, with his hands hot and insistent on as much of Tim’s skin as he could find…. Tim was not a strong man. Arousal pooled low, molten in his stomach.

Rhys pulled Tim’s hat off and threw it aside. He fisted both of his hands into Tim’s sweater and kissed him, heated and forceful. Tim moaned and didn’t resist as Rhys pulled him inside. They stumbled past Rhys’ living room and kitchen, flinging articles of clothing in their wake, as many as they could without breaking apart.

It was easier with Rhys. Everything standing between Tim and his chest was just a matter of buttons, although there were too many. He managed them, one at a time, without ripping or fumbling. The shirt and vest fell to the floor. Tim’s back hit the bedroom door as he reached for Rhys’ belt.

“In,” Rhys said, pushing the door open over Tim’s shoulder. Tim obeyed eagerly, licking down Rhys’ neck to mouth at his shoulder, walking backwards into the darkened room.

Rhys gripped the short hairs on the back of Tim’s head and tugged. Tim broke away, panting lightly as Rhys grabbed the hem of his sweater and shoved it and his undershirt up Tim’s chest. Tim pulled it the rest of the way off as Rhys bent down and kissed Tim’s stomach, the gesture so strangely sweet and tender in the midst of everything that it made Tim laugh, breathless.

Rhys looked up at him, his golden eye glowing soft in the blue shadows of his room. Tim reached for him, to pull him back up, but Rhys caught his hands and held them. He stood up slowly, his hands still gripping Tim’s, and looked down at Tim’s chest. Down at the dark smudge that blossomed over Tim’s heart, a shadow of the bruise he’d gotten almost a month ago.

Tim smiled, feeling self-conscious under Rhys’ regard. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” he said.

Slowly, carefully, Rhys bent his head and placed a delicate kiss over his heart. Tim’s breath caught. Rhys released his hands, wrapped his arms around Tim’s waist once more.

“I nearly lost you,” Rhys said, his breath tickling the hairs of Tim’s chest.

“You didn’t.” Tim placed his freed hand on the back of Rhys’ head, tangling his fingers through his locks.

“I keep almost losing you,” Rhys said, pressing another kiss. His hands slid up, around until one cupped Tim’s pectoral.

“You didn’t.” Tim’s voice hitched as Rhys began to rise, kissing his way up Tim’s chest. “You won’t. I’m here.” He wondered if Rhys understood just what he was saying, the actual intent behind his words.

Tim craned his neck back, offering his throat to Rhys’ mouth. Rhys wrapped one hand behind Tim’s head, wrapped his other arm tight around his back, and began to bend him backwards.

Tim sighed, leaning into Rhys’ arms like a dance partner mid-dip. He took care not to put all his weight onto Rhys’ spindly arms. But when Rhys’ lips found that sweet spot on Tim’s neck, he felt it like a jolt of electricity, turning his muscles to jelly. His knees went weak as Rhys lowered him finally, finally onto the bed.

The urgency returned and Rhys didn’t waste time. He grabbed at the waistband of Tim’s jeans, one hand fumbling with his fly, and tried to pull everything off simultaneously. Tim arched his hips off the bed, biting his lip as his jeans were shoved down his thighs, the nails on Rhys’ flesh hand dragging down Tim’s soft skin. Tim groaned as his briefs slid down, and his erection sprung free. Tim kicked his jeans off, and Rhys flung them aside, and Tim was finally, finally naked.

Rhys stared down at him, leaning his weight on both of his arms, his gaze locked on Tim’s hardened cock. He licked his lips.

It hit Tim, in that moment, just what was happening. And what was about to happen. This was Rhys, his boss, the man he’d been thinking about almost obsessively for the last six months. For longer, maybe. This was what Tim had wanted since—hell. Since the first time he laid eyes on the spoiled, coiffed brat on his corporate throne, almost a year ago.

It all felt so fragile, somehow. Like it could all go up in smoke, and Tim would wake up in his first class seat as the pilot announced their arrival over the PA.

Rhys crawled back up Tim’s chest, until they were face to face once more.

“Tim,” he said, as Tim cupped his face. “I’m not gonna lose you. Am I?” He nosed at Tim’s neck, found the sweet spot under Tim’s ear once again and pressed his lips against it.

Tim arched into him, completely shameless. “No,” he said. God, he hoped not. He would kill to stay in this moment, to keep it true. “No, you—“ He gasped, his toes curling as Rhys nibbled, attacking the sensitive spot with teeth, tongue and lips. “You won’t. Not even—even if you wanted to.” A promise made without thinking, but he knew he was telling the truth. He was done in, now. He’d stay at Rhys’ side until Rhys made him leave. His heart squeezed at the thought. He ignored it and reached for Rhys’ belt, his fingers shaking as he unlatched the buckle.

Rhys nuzzled Tim’s neck, breath hot as Tim’s fingers found their way inside his trousers.

Tim paused, frowning a little as his fingers brushed against what must’ve been Rhys’ underwear.

“Silk?” he asked. The sensation was unmistakable. He felt the curl of Rhys’ lips against his skin.

“That’s right.” Rhys pulled back, looking down at Tim with a pleased grin. “A little luxury close to the skin never hurt anyone.”

“Are these women’s panties?” Tim pushed Rhys’ trousers down, curling his hands around the swell of Rhys’ ass, silk and lace sliding against his palms.

Rhys hummed, stretching out like a spoiled cat, pressing into Tim’s hands. “They’re panties, yes. Don’t you think they feel good?”

Tim felt beyond words. Rhys’ sigh brushed across his heated neck as Tim squeezed soft flesh. Tim broke away only to push Rhys’ pants the rest of the way off. Rhys obligingly kicked them over the side of the bed.

“Tim,” he said as Tim’s hands returned to feeling up his thighs and ass. Tim angled his head until he could kiss Rhys’ chest. “ _Tim_ ,” Rhys said again, voice more firm as he pulled back.

Tim growled as Rhys leveraged himself up on both arms, looking down at Tim. Tim tried to follow, but Rhys placed his soft hand in the centre of his chest and pushed him gently back onto the mattress. Tim sighed and lay back, waiting.

Rhys bit his lip. He dragged his gaze across Tim’s bared form. “You know… I noticed something before. The way you reacted when I was ordering you around.” He looked back to Tim’s face, his eyes gleaming. “It seemed like you kind’ve liked it.”

Tim swallowed, his cheeks warming. He said nothing, which said enough.

Rhys drew his finger down Tim’s chest, between his pectorals, a light touch that left fire in its wake. “I’ve got an idea,” he said as Tim arched into him. “I want you to hold the headboard with both hands. And I don’t want you to let go. Not until I say so. Can you do that for me, Tim?”

Tim breathed in sharply, a shiver travelling down his spine. He closed his eyes until he regained grip on his control again. And nodded.

He shimmied up the mattress, threw both arms above his head and gripped the headboard. Rhys took both of Tim’s shoulders in his hands and pushed him further down, until he was stretched out beneath him. Tim’s grip flexed as Rhys raised himself once again, tilted his head to the side and examined Tim through narrowed eyes. And then he smiled.

“You should see yourself.” He knelt over Tim and kissed him, sweet and brief, before moving further down before Tim could follow. He trailed kisses down Tim’s neck, lips teasing at what was now almost certainly a love bite, dragged his fingers up Tim’s chest and he moved lower. He pressed his lips once again over the heart of his bruise before kissing over to the swell of his pectoral and taking Tim’s nipple into his mouth. And sank his teeth into his soft flesh.

The headboard creaked under his hands. Tim bent his head back as Rhys worked him over,  sucking on the over-sensitive pink flesh until Tim thought he might scream. And then Rhys switched to the other one and started all over again, his fingers plucking at the nipple he’d just abandoned, until Tim was trembling, little gasps escaping with each breath. His cock twitched where it lay, heavy and neglected, on his stomach.

Pleasure sparked from Rhys’ touch, the heat of his mouth, the blunt feel of his teeth, the pain just right, just enough to keep him grounded. It was too much, but it wasn’t enough. He felt greedy, desperate for more on the verge of losing his mind.

“Rhys. Rhys, please. Please,” he panted. He jerked up against Rhys’ hips, desperate for some friction. Rhys pulled back and Tim nearly howled. The headboard jerked against the wall.

Rhys raised his hips like he was performing some kind of goddamn yoga pose, his ass in the air as he leaned his weight onto Tim’s chest. He pressed both hands onto Tim’s pecs and squeezed.

“What’s that, Tim?” he asked, grinning and just as breathless, the bastard. “Is there something you wanted?”

“Please.” It was all Tim could manage as he pushed himself up off the bed. “Rhys, please. Please, please, I need— I can’t—“ Voice unspooling, faltering, breaking with pent up, unmet needs.

“You’re not half this polite or obedient in the office,” Rhys said, his eyes twinkling and Jesus _Christ_ , Tim was in so much trouble. He didn’t realize how bad it would get. But looking at Rhys’ wicked, pleased expression, he certainly knew now. He swallowed. “I wish I’d known this would be what it took to get you to _behave_.” He squeezed Tim’s chest, his nails digging into his skin. “Why haven’t we been doing this the whole time?”

“We’re… clearly idiots,” Tim panted.

Rhys huffed. “Clearly.” He tilted his head and watched Tim as he tried to catch his breath. The delight faded from his expression, replaced with something soft and difficult to define.

Tim’s arms trembled. “Rhys?”

 Rhys leaned down and captured his lips in a kiss, tender as a bruise. Tim moaned quietly. He dropped his head to the mattress and let Rhys take what he wanted.

“We’ll have to make up for it,” Rhys said, breath tickling Tim’s cheek.

He leaned back and, keeping his eyes on Tim’s face, licked a long stripe down his left palm. Excitement spiked as Rhys reached down and finally, god, finally, gripped Tim’s straining cock.

Tim relaxed, the desperation he’d felt before easing away into something else. Rhys had him now. Rhys would look after him. He spread his legs and lay back.

“If I’d known this is how you’d get, I would’ve taken you to bed months ago. I would’ve done it as soon as I hired you,” Rhys said conversationally as he began to pump his hand up and down. “I’ll have to start. Next time you try to give me sass. I’ll tell you to hold the edge of my desk with both hands and stretch you over it. I’ll wind you up until you’re so hard you can’t see straight. You’ll be begging for the chance to apologise to me. Won’t you, Tim?” He twisted his wrist, his thumb brushing over the bead of pre-cum.

Tim’s mouth hung open, his breath escaping in shallow gasps, but he couldn’t think of a thing to say. He couldn’t think of anything beyond Rhys’ hands on him, his cybernetic gripping his hip, his human hand just perfect as it pumped his cock. He wanted to live in that moment, strung out on Rhys’ bed, hanging between the sound of his voice and the feel of his hands.

“Tim.” Rhys’ grip tightened suddenly, holding Tim at the base of his dick. Tim whined, hips twitching, but Rhys held him down. “Tim. Tim look at me.”

Tim kept his eyes closed as he tried to re-centre himself. His heart galloped in his chest, pulse throbbing in his ears. When he felt certain he’d caught his breath, regained an ounce of coherency, he lifted his head.

Rhys stared back, his golden eye shining in the dim blue light of a winter’s night. Tim could see the wet gleam of his lips. He could track the movement of his smile.

“Tim,” he said. “Do you want me to finish you like this? Or would you like me to use my mouth?” Tim licked his lips and Rhys’ smile widened. “Or…” he said, leaning over Tim’s shuddering stomach. He kissed Tim’s navel, swirled his tongue across the soft skin. He trailed down to Tim’s thighs. Tim squirmed and tried to hold back a whine.

Given Rhys’ soft laugh, he suspected he failed.

The worst part, the small part of Tim that was still capable of thought managed, was just how calm and collected Rhys was. Rhys sounded as cool and in control as he did in the office. It spelled trouble down the line, mostly for Tim’s productivity. Which had already become a problem, even before he knew what Rhys looked like naked.

Rhys squeezed the soft skin of his thigh between his teeth. Tim flinched.

“Or,” Rhys continued, smile obvious in his voice. “You can finish inside of me. It’s up to you.”

Tim groaned and let his head flop back onto the pillow. “God. I really, really wish I was a younger man with a better refractory period.”

Rhys snorted, and Tim felt his breath against the taut skin of his dick. “You think I’d get you off three times in a row? Greedy.”

“I’d pay you back,” Tim said defensively.

Rhys’ smile softened, the look on his face becoming fond. Tim’s stomach gave a weak flip and he had that moment again. Like all the blood had rushed out of his head, leaving him light, almost airless.

That he was here. That this was Rhys. That this was really happening. Somehow, in spite of themselves, the two of them had managed to get here. Tim could’ve laughed.

“I know you would. Well?” Rhys lifted himself up on his elbows. “Have you decided?”

 “Inside,” Tim said. Rhys’ lips parted.

“Oh,” he said and dropped a soft kiss to the tip of Tim’s cock. Tim moaned and told his fevered brain to commit that image to its permanent files. “Very good choice.”

* * *

Of course, just because Rhys was pleased with Tim’s choice, didn’t mean he was going to make it easy for him.

He draped himself over Tim, his leg slotted between Tim’s, careful to keep his cock pinned under his soft thigh. Tim had one hand curled around Rhys’ ass, spreading his cheeks and pumping his fingers inside of him. Rhys sighed as Tim teased a third digit around the rim, languidly grinding his erection into the line of Tim’s hip.

Tim behaved. He kept his other arm wrapped around Rhys, his hand splayed over the small of Rhys’ back, his fingers digging into his skin. Other than the occasional jerk of his hips, he kept himself still and focused on Rhys’ pleasure.

God his fingers were so big. Rhys reveled in the feeling of them, warm and thick inside of him. Tim worked them in and out with such care, like he was afraid of hurting Rhys. So much so that Rhys had to order him to be a little less shy and a lot more aggressive.

“I won’t break,” Rhys said, rolling his hips. Tim had growled in his ear, a tremor working down his arm.

He loved this side of Tim. He’d seen hints of it before—the way his expression would darken, the way his fingers would shake, the way his burning gaze swept over Rhys’ body when he thought Rhys wasn’t looking. It was as if all the desperate need and wants inside of Tim were boiling over. Slamming against the bars of his self-control, like something wild.

Wild, but not untamed, Rhys thought smugly as he wriggled onto Tim’s third probing digit. He dragged his cock over the line of Tim’s hips, leaving a smear of pre-cum across his freckled skin.

That was a nice discovery. Tim had freckles on his thighs, and his stomach, down his chest and dotting his shoulders. Everywhere, fading to a lighter touch around the dark curls between his legs, and none on the velvet skin of his cock.

“It’s a—sun thing,” he said, voice strained, when Rhys asked. “It’s—I get them anywhere I get sunlight. I don’t—don’t really sunbathe in the nude much.”

“Shame,” Rhys said as he mouthed lazily at the massive hickey he’d left on Tim’s neck earlier. Tim still trembled like a pulled wire now and then, particularly when Rhys would pinch the skin between his teeth.

Rhys let his eyes slip shut, focusing on the feeling of Tim stretching him open. Tim worked slowly, almost maddeningly so, but not cruelly. He pushed them in and out, a shallow fucking motion that Rhys thrusted his hips to meet. The pads of his fingers brushed lightly against that bundle of nerves, making Rhys whine with every missed stroke. It almost felt deliberate.

Rhys had intended to keep this going for a while, just because he enjoyed watching Tim’s tightly wound control unravel, but he’d begun to rethink his plan. He lifted his hips away from where he’d pinned Tim, trying to force him in deeper. Tim curled his fingers, finally hitting the sweet spot, sparking pleasure down Rhys’ spine, curling his toes. He reached back and gripped Tim’s wrist, trying to force him in further, arching shamelessly back.

“Fuck, Rhys.” Tim’s voice shook like a wire pulled too taut, ready to snap. “You don’t know— how good you look right now.” He buried his nose into Rhys’ hair and breathed in, sharp and trembling. “You’re right,” he said, laughing. “We should’ve done this sooner. Goddamn us both.”

“Tim,” Rhys groaned as Tim scissored his fingers.

“Please, Rhys. Please, Jesus _fuck_ , please let me fuck you. Please, Rhys. _Please_.” The sound of Tim’s voice, so heated and desperate, travelled straight to Rhys’ dick, hitting every button on its way, lighting him up. Rhys bit his lip, trying to pull himself back from the brink. He wanted to last. He wanted to ride Tim into incoherency, and Rhys Griffiths-Whyte was a man who saw his plans through. He nodded.

 “Bedside table,” Rhys panted. “Top drawer.”

Tim reached over and pulled the drawer open while Rhys picked up the bottle of lube he’d tossed aside earlier. He squeezed out a dollop onto his fingers while Tim tore the condom packet open.

Rhys reclaimed Tim’s wrist and pushed it aside. He held Tim’s gaze while he wrapped his lubricated hand around his dick.

Rhys had wanted to make a production from this too, but the heat had built up under his skin and he felt as if he’d catch fire at any moment.

He locked eyes with Tim as he raised himself up onto his knees, positioned himself, and sank down. His thighs trembled when he felt Tim’s cock press against his hole and holy goddamn it was so big. Even with the lube, and the preparation, the stretch of him burned.

All those times Rhys had taken matters into his own hands. All those nights spent with toys, playing out fantasies he could never admit to himself during the daylight—none of it could’ve prepared him for the real thing. Rhys bit his lip against the tears springing to his eyes and lowered himself until he was finally fully seated.

Rhys paused, breathing hard, as he waited for his body to adjust. Tim rubbed his hands soothingly up and down Rhys’ hips, his thumb sweeping across Rhys’ heated skin.

Rhys opened his eyes and found Tim watching his face anxiously.

“You okay?” Tim asked. Oh god, Rhys was in trouble. He smiled at Tim, that same goofy, love-dumb look he’d given him at the elevators. Tim returned it.

He sat up carefully—Rhys gasped as his dick shifted inside of him—cupped Rhys’ face and kissed him, slowly and sweetly.

Rhys nearly melted. He held onto Tim’s broad shoulders while Tim rubbed his thigh, the motion so soothing that Rhys almost didn’t notice it when Tim began to thrust, controlled and shallow, into Rhys.

Rhys groaned into his mouth as Tim’s hips jerked upwards. He gripped Rhys’ hips and held him tight, practically sliding him up and down on his cock.

“Jesus,” Rhys gasped, gripping Tim’s shoulders as he rocked into him. “Jesus, y-you’re strong.”

“This—?” Tim laughed like a breath punched out of him. “This is—nothing. I could—could hold you against the wall sometime.”

Rhys snorted, even as his dick twitched with interest. “You’d h-hurt your—ah!—your old m-man back.”

“Worth it,” Tim growled and drew Rhys down into another, more heated kiss.

Rhys relaxed into the ride, leaning back into Tim’s weight and reveling at the strength of him as his thrust harder, driving deeper inside of Rhys. Tim nibbled Rhys’ lower lip, his fingers pressing into Rhys’ thighs and the soft flesh of his ass.

This was fun, but this wasn’t his plan.

He broke away from Tim and placed one hand flat among the kiss bruises on his chest and pushed him back down.

Tim sank onto the bed, pouting with confusion. Rhys grinned down at him, feeling triumphant and a little charmed at the sight. He settled back on Tim’s lap.

“This is how it’s going to work,” Rhys said. “I’m going to ride you until I’m satisfied, and you’re going to lie there and let me do as I please. Okay?”

Tim knocked his head against the mattress like a drama queen and groaned. “I feel like I’m not being given a choice.”

“You have a choice,” Rhys said as he began to rock his hips. “I can always just pull off of you, find a toy and you can watch me play with myself.” His grin grew a little wild as he picked up his pace. “That m-might be fun.”

“Some other time,” Tim said through grit teeth. He held Rhys’ hips in that same punishing grip, but he didn’t try to control Rhys’ movements, so Rhys decided to let him.

It got easier to move now that he’d taken it all in. Rhys could still feel the stretch, but it didn’t hurt quite the same. The burn had settled into a pleasant heat, like sinking into a too-hot bath on a cold day. Rhys angled his hips until he could feel the cock inside of him brush against his prostate with each thrust. His dick twitched, a fat bead of pre-cum swelling at his head. He groaned and ground against Tim, eager for that contact again and again.

“ _Rhys_.” Tim sounded pained, his voice shaking. His fingers dug into Rhys’ skin, and Rhys knew he would have bruises tomorrow. “Rhys. Rhys, _please_.”

Something snapped inside of Rhys at the sound of Tim’s voice, so sweet and desperate. He pushed himself forward, until he was bent back over Tim’s chest and bounced on Tim’s cock, establishing a hard, desperate rhythm. He could make it last longer, he knew, but he’d last long enough. He’d lasted months.

Months spent watching Tim with other people, months spent too frightened to say anything, to take hold of Tim’s lapels, push him down on his desk and kiss him until he begged Rhys for more.

Rhys panted open mouthed onto Tim’s darkly furred chest, as the tension wound tight inside of him, his hips tingling with it, primed to break.

He could’ve had all of this sooner. He wished he could go back in time and kick his own ass.

He would have it all now. He would keep it. Tim was _his_.

“ _Rhys_ , goddamn you, _please_.”

Rhys sank his teeth into Tim’s pectoral and came so hard he saw stars.

Tim rolled him over almost immediately, switching their positions and thrusted into Rhys like—like something wild. Rhys smiled and held on, too boneless and satisfied to do much else.

 Tim came soon after, panting Rhys’ name into his ear.

Rhys wound his fingers into Tim’s hair as his breathing began to steady.

“You came all over my stomach,” Tim grumbled. Rhys kissed the top of his head.

“You’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the end :^)
> 
> I'm on tumblrrrr: nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


	8. Chapter 8

Tim took a shower. It gave him time to think.

For a while, all he thought about was how nice Rhys’ bathroom was, and how good the water jets felt on his aching muscles. There were a line of spouts on the wall and curled above him like a metallic wave, cresting two feet above Tim’s head. He experimented with the pressure settings and leaned backwards into the spray, letting it massage his sore muscles. It would be hard to go back to his rinky-dink little shower after this.

Tim swallowed, water dripping down his brows. It would be hard to go back to a lot of things, he supposed. His heart twisted.

It would be fine, he told himself as he squeezed a dollop of Rhys’ fancy body soap onto a shower puff. Rhys wanted him. Tim should not have any further doubts about that. Rhys wanted him, in spite of everything, in spite of the options available to him.

In spite of the fact that Tim was a barely functioning adult with a drinking problem, PTSD, a host of mental issues, and a body that was on the edge of quitting on him. He was older than Rhys. He was a mess. Rhys could do better without even trying. He could trip over a better option in the street.

How long would this last? Tim wondered, watching white suds slide off his legs and into the swirling drain. Did you even think about that before you decided to jump into bed with your boss, you stupid bastard? Ex-boss. Whatever.

Tim bowed his head into the spray, let the water hit his neck.

The last week had been one of the worst of Tim’s life, which was saying a lot. He’d never felt so… directionless. Lost.

He’d spent the week in his living room, curled up under a blanket, staring at screens, simultaneously trying not to think about anything. Trying to figure out his next step forward. Trying to mitigate the damage he’d inflicted on his life. The way he’d fucked things up again.

The way he would almost certainly fuck things up now.

Most of all, Tim had spent the last week trying not to think of the last conversation he’d had with Rhys. When Rhys had told him that it’d been Jack, all along. Confirming a lot of things Tim had always suspected.

It made sense. That was what Tim kept coming back to. It made sense someone like Rhys—young, successful, wealthy, powerful, handsome—would want someone like Jack. It’d been a mistake from the start that Tim had caught Rhys’ interest, a glitch in the Matrix.

God. That Tim still made Matrix references was evidence enough that he wasn’t good enough for Rhys. This wasn’t going to work.

Tim was so preoccupied with self-pity that he failed to hear the bathroom door open. He didn’t realise he had company until he heard the latch turn on the glass shower door, and a blast of cool air swirled the steam.

“You’re taking too long,” Rhys said as he wrapped his arms around Tim’s waist. He crowded him against the mosaic tile wall and kissed him.

“My bad,” Tim said as Rhys pushed his way into the stream. “You’ve got a really nice shower.”

Rhys laughed against his lips. “You smell nice.”

“It’s your soap,” Tim said.

“I like it. Like you smelling like my things. You’re gonna get soft on me, aren’t you? Gonna get spoiled by all my luxury amenities.”

Tim’s heart twisted itself up again, knotting up like string. Rhys’ grip tightened on his hair. He sucked Tim’s lower lip into his mouth and sank his teeth into the soft skin.

“Good,” Rhys said, leaning into Tim like a dancing partner who’d had a few too many. “I’m gonna make you soft, Timothy Lawrence.” He kissed along his jaw, up to his ear. “You’re never gonna see another gun in your life. The most… most danger you’ll see is on television.”

Tim wanted to laugh. It was almost funny. He touched his fingers to Rhys’ chin, turned his head and claimed his lips in a kiss.

They dried off. Tim found himself back in Rhys’ bedroom, seated on the edge of his absurdly large mattress, dressed in his boxer briefs and nothing else. The sheets had been replaced, Tim noted. He scrubbed at his hair while Rhys padded over to his dresser.

How long would it take? How long would Tim have before Rhys realised the kind of mess he’d gotten himself into. Things with Marco had only lasted because Tim had gotten good at pretending. But it wasn’t enough. It’d been hard to lose Marco, and Tim hadn’t even liked him that much. What would it feel like to lose Rhys?

Tim swallowed. He already knew. He’d known it all week, gotten real intimate with the knowledge. Lived inside that depression like a cell he’d been put in to.

The flimsy excuse he’d used to come crawling back to Rhys had been enough to get him a stay of his sentence, but that was all it was. It wouldn’t last. Nothing ever did. It didn’t matter how hard Tim tried to hold on, how hard he tried to be good, to be perfect, to be the boyfriend they needed. It was never enough. It would always end.

 “Are you hungry? We could get something to eat,” Rhys said, breaking into Tim’s thoughts as he selected a fresh pair of silk and lace panties from the drawer. Tim watched Rhys step into them, pulling black lace over a crescent of five perfect, red bruises on his hips.

“I could eat,” Tim said, staring at Rhys’ body. It’d been so gratifying to learn how far those tattoos of his went.

Rhys caught his eye and grinned. Tim smiled back and tried not to feel like a man on death row.

Stop it, he told himself, tearing his gaze away. Stop being so dramatic. Stop being so _much_. Rhys is with you now. Try to enjoy it.

“Tim?”

Tim flinched and looked up. Rhys stood in front of him, dressed in a t-shirt and panties and nothing else and dammit, Tim would enjoy this. He reached out and wrapped his arms around Rhys’ waist, pressed his face into the soft fabric of his shirt.

Rhys laughed and ran his fingers through Tim’s hair. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” Tim said, muffled by cotton. “Just… Having a hard time keeping my hands off of you.” That was absolutely true. Rhys laughed again. “It’s going to be hard to focus after this. Now that I know what you wear under all your nice suits.” He ran one finger under the waistband of Rhys’ panties, drew it back and released it with a snap.

“Good,” Rhys said smugly. “I want you to think about that the next time you try to give me lip at work.”

Tim groaned. “I’ll be useless all day.” He closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of Rhys’ fingers against his scalp. It was easier to get out of his head when Rhys paid him attention. Even this was enough to chase his melancholic thoughts back to the dark recesses of his brain. If only they could just stay like this, Tim thought wistfully.

Rhys’ fingers slowed. “Tim?”

Tim froze, his brief calm evaporating in a snap. He knew that tone. He’d heard it more times than he could count, recognized it no matter the mouth it came out of.

Too soon, Tim thought. It was too soon for this. At least give him a night. At least let him have that.

“Tim?” Rhys cupped Tim’s face and pushed him gently back. Tim finally looked up and saw Rhys staring back, his cheek hollowed out. “There’s something I should tell you before… before everything.”

“Okay,” Tim said, voice calm even as his heart raced. Rhys sat down beside Tim, the mattress dipping under his weight.

Rhys pushed a hand through his dripping hair. He looked down at his legs. “Um. The things I said to you on the night of the party. About Jack.”

Tim’s breath caught. He’d hoped they could’ve had some time before they talked about this.

“I… didn’t mean those things,” Rhys said.

Tim stared at his hands where they lay on his lap. “You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” he said.

Rhys winced. He turned his gaze to the window, down to the floor, searching, no doubt, for the tactful way to tell Tim that he still had feelings for Jack.

“They weren’t honest,” he said. He sighed and scrubbed at his face. “Look. I did have feelings for Jack, but they were never… I never _liked_ him. They weren’t, like, _feelings_ feelings. They were, you know.” He gestured down to his crotch. “That’s all. I mean, I could barely stand being in the same room with him. It was all just a dumb crush, based on… I don’t know. Based on the things I thought were important when I was a stupid kid. Things I don’t really value that highly anymore.”

Tim lifted one corner of his lips in a limp smile. “Right. So you’re saying you don’t want someone who’s smart, powerful, rich, confident?”

Rhys frowned at him. “You’re smart. You’re confident. You’re powerful.” Tim snorted. “Hey.” Rhys caught his chin with his soft hand and turned Tim’s attention to him. “You are. The way you fucked me into the mattress before?” He grinned while Tim tried to duck his head. “That’s power. You have to admit it.”

Tim’s weak smile faded. His gaze drifted down to the tattoo on Rhys’ neck. “But… He’s more. More than me. You were right, Rhys.” It felt like thorns in his throat, pressing up and out, each word pricking fresh pain. He felt shredded. “I mean, I’m just…” He swallowed. “Less.”

A peal of laughter was like a slap in the face with a wet glove. Tim jumped at the sound of Rhys’ voice. Rhys grabbed his shoulders before he could shrink away and leaned his weight against him.

“ _Less_.” Rhys’ voice broke, laughter shaking his slim frame like sobs. “Jesus, Tim. How could you ever think… I’ve never met anyone… You’re not _less_.” He curled his hand around the back of Tim’s head. “With Jack, before, it was always lust. It was dumb fantasies. Stupid kid stuff. But this thing with you…” He kissed Tim, brief and bruising.

Slowly, Tim wrapped his arms around Rhys. Tentative, still afraid that this whole thing might go up in smoke. As Rhys deepened the kiss, Tim started to wise up.

“This thing with you,” Rhys breathed the words across Tim’s lips. “It’s everything. It’s here.” He slid his hand down Tim’s neck, over his shoulder, to press against Tim’s chest, right over his thudding heart. “Here.” He kissed Tim. “Here.” He leaned up and pressed his lips against Tim’s forehead. Tim’s eyes slipped shut. He brushed his nose against Rhys’ chin, breathed in the smell of cotton and his fancy soap.

He gripped Rhys’ soft hips, palms rubbing against satin. “Here too?” he asked, pushing his face against Rhys’ neck. “Here, Rhys?”

Rhys laughed, quiet and soft, rocking his hips gently into Tim’s lap. “Oooh, yes. Definitely. You got me bad, Tim. You could never be _less_. Not to me. You’re—“

Tim carded his hand through Rhys’ hair, pulled him down and kissed him. His anxiety loosened its grip over his chest, brambles clearing from his throat. He felt as if he could breathe again.

“I wasn’t finished,” Rhys said, grinning once they’d broken apart. Tim huffed, he bowed his head and smiled into Rhys’ shoulder.

“I don’t need more, Rhys.”

“You’re cute.” Rhys dropped a kiss on the top of his head. “Especially when you’re embarrassed. Or when you’re all worked up and turned on and helpless.” Tim choked. Rhys laughed. He pushed them both down to the bed, rolled onto his side, facing Tim, tangling their legs together.

“You’re the worst,” Tim grumbled. He hid his burning face with both hands.

“Yeah,” Rhys agreed. “But you love me.”

Tim swallowed. He looked up over the fence of his fingers to find Rhys staring back at him, still smiling. He reached out and pushed a strand of Tim’s hair back.

“I want to be serious about this,” Rhys said.

It was exactly what Tim wanted to hear, so much so that he worried for the fifth time that night that he’d fallen asleep. How could his luck have turned so sweetly, so much in his favour? How could he have this? He bumped his nose against Rhys’, rubbed his thumb over the line of lace at his hip.

“Um. I should tell you,” he said. “That night at the party… I kissed Wil.”

Rhys’ smile shrank. “Oh.”

“Yeah. I thought I wanted him,” Tim went on quietly, his gaze locked on Rhys’ neck, on the thrum of his pulse. “But I knew I was wrong as soon as I did it. It wasn’t him I wanted. Not really. It hadn’t been him for a long time.”

Rhys closed the distance between them, pressed his soft lips against Tim’s. Tim’s grip tightened on his hip. If it could be like this, Tim thought, then maybe he could make it work. If he could relax himself the way he’d done only an hour before, the way he did in the restaurant, surrender himself to Rhys, trust him to guide them through, then maybe it would work. He sighed into Rhys’ mouth, releasing another fear.

“It’s me, right?” Rhys asked, breaking away with a grin.

Tim huffed. “Yes, Rhys,” he said, smiling. “Didn’t I say as much earlier? It’s you.”

Rhys closed the distance between them. “Just checking,” he murmured against Tim’s lips. “Of course it’s me. Only me. I love you, Tim.”

Tim froze. Rhys jerked back, his eyes widening and sucked in a long breath.

“Oh, holy shit,” he said, echoing Tim’s thoughts. “ _Oh_ , I said it. I thought it would be hard but I said it. Tim!” He grabbed Tim’s hands, vibrating with giddy energy. “Tim, I said it! I told you I love you.”

“Congratulations,” Tim said weakly, his mind empty.

Rhys rolled him over and kissed him. Tim’s body took over while his mind blanked. He kissed Rhys back.

After an enjoyable few moments, they broke apart. Rhys frowned at Tim. “You seem surprised,” he said, almost accusatorily.

“Uh.” Tim licked his lips and struggled to think of something good to say. He felt as if his mind had completely walked out on him, and he was left to work with whatever he could find in the moment. Mostly, that was Rhys, staring down at him with a furrowed brow and a pouting lip.

Rhys. Rhys who loved him. The realization sank another inch through the numb fog, getting closer to finding its way home. His fingers tightened on Rhys’ arms.

“Did you mean it?” he asked, hating how small his voice sounded. Rhys bent down and captured his lips.

“Yes, Tim,” he said, his voice almost like a sigh. “Yes, I meant it. I’m in love with you.” He shook his head, grinning. “You know what that means, right?” He pressed the tip of his nose against Tim’s. “It means you’re going to have to stick around.”

“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” Tim said. In a night filled with them, that somehow felt like the most open, blistering statement of honesty so far. “I’ve already missed my flight,” he said, brushing past it. Rhys made a pleased noise and kissed him. “I’m… probably gonna miss the next one.” Tim hands slid up Rhys’ back, pushing the soft cotton fabric of his shirt up. Rhys made another pleased noise, on a lower register that spoke to something primal inside of Tim. “The one after that, too.”

It was a while before they managed to get out of the bed.

Rhys ordered them pizza (whole grain crust, goat cheese, spinach, tomatoes, and onions), which they ate while curled up on Rhys’ sectional couch. A fire crackled merrily in the sunken space in the centre of his living room. Rhys didn’t have a tree, but he’d strung up a few tasteful ornaments. Rhys flicked through the holiday offerings on Netflix, trying to find something they could both agree on.

“What about this one? Groundhog Day meets Christmas cheer? She has to date the same guy twelve times or… something bad will happen, I guess,” Rhys said.

Tim, who was not normally a fan of holiday movies, romantic movies, or movies with absurd time travel premises, found himself humming in agreement through a mouthful of pizza. “Sure, sounds fun.”

It was very stupid. But Tim truly didn’t mind, especially when Rhys curled up beside him, pulled a blanket down over them both, and lay back onto Tim’s chest. Neither of them moved when the credits began to roll and Netflix cued up the next movie—this one about a woman who dated a ghost at Christmas. They watched that too, Rhys dozing off with Tim’s fingers in his hair. Tim listened to the sound of his breathing, listened to it slow and grow deeper. Tim buried his smile into Rhys’ soft hair.

Self-doubt nibbled at every thought, as it always would, but Tim remembered what his therapist had told him. He couldn’t control invasive thoughts, but he could control the way he reacted. If his inner voice tried to tell him that Rhys was making a mistake, that he would grow tired of Tim, and Tim would be left alone…

Tim closed his eyes.

Fear would be a part of his life forever, he suspected. As soon as he’d learned how to want something, he’d learned to fear its loss. From the first time his grandmother had taken away his stuffed Nala because she was afraid it would turn him into a homosexual, Tim had learned that the things—and the people—he loved could always be taken from him.

He couldn’t choose to live without fear. But he could choose how he reacted to that fear. He tightened his grip around Rhys and murmured a quiet promise into his hair.

Rhys stirred under his arms. He stretched like a lazy cat, pressing his head back into Tim’s chest, and let out a long sigh.

“Mmm. Merry Christmas, Tim.” He turned and curled further into Tim’s embrace. “s’after midnight,” he said through a yawn.

“Oh,” Tim said.

“Is the movie over?” Rhys wasn’t even looking at the screen. Tim had barely paid attention.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It doesn’t matter. I think it’s time for bed.” He smiled when Rhys grumbled. “Come on. It’s not far.”

Rhys scrunched up his face. “Ugh.”

Tim carried him into the bedroom, because he knew he could and he enjoyed the way Rhys enjoyed it. It was something he could do for Rhys. Something he’d keep on doing, for as long as he could.

Rhys latched onto him almost as soon as he climbed under the blankets. Tim huffed as Rhys reclaimed his spot on Tim’s chest. Tim placed his hand on the top of Rhys’ head, fingers winding through his hair once more.

“Is everything gonna be okay with you?” Rhys asked. Tim paused. “With Angel? You’re gonna miss seeing her this week, aren’t you?”

“Oh.” Tim felt a little foolish. “Right. Well. I’ll miss her, yeah, but I’ll catch up with her in the new year. She spends most of her time hanging out with the other kids in the complex, anyway.”

“Good.” Rhys yawned again and flexed his grip in Tim’s undershirt.

He’d have to find something to wear, Tim supposed. He could maybe make the trip back to his apartment tomorrow and get a few things. He’d have to figure out a time to come by when the cat-sitter wouldn’t be around. Wouldn’t want to startle her.

It was easier to think about the mundane details of his next few days, than about the fact that his boss was currently drooling on his cotton shirt. That he was lying in his boss’ bed, in his bedroom, in his penthouse apartment, in the massive building he practically owned. (He probably did own it—hadn’t Mercedes said part of their wealth came from real estate?) That he had, in fact, fucked his boss into this same mattress only a few hours before. And then they’d made out in the shower, and ate pizza in the living room.

And Rhys loved him.

Tim let out a slow breath. He had the feeling he was going to spend a lot of time just trying to adjust to this. He’d gone from thinking everything Rhys had ever said to him was a lie to… here. Cozy in the heart of his home, on Christmas day. To trusting Rhys.

He couldn’t fuck this up, he decided. He owed Rhys his very best effort.

It was a risky plan, but it felt like a good one, and Tim relaxed upon making it. He raised his head and brushed his lips across the top of Rhys’ head.

“Merry Christmas, Rhys,” Tim said. Rhys hummed in response, almost certainly half-asleep. Tim lay back, closed his eyes, and waited to join him.

* * *

Tim was perhaps one of the only people in the world who could leave Jack Lawrence waiting.

Tim didn’t recognize the address his brother had sent him, which lead to a fine old Victorian house in one of the old money neighbourhoods in the city. Nor did he recognize the name of the host whose party he was about to crash. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be there long.

The house was lit up with strings of white and golden light, leaving everything looking as if it were taking place inside an illuminated champaign glass. Tim smiled tightly at anyone who tried to catch his eye and elbowed his way politely through the crowds. A jazz quartet had been set up in the corner, beside a Christmas tree which would almost certainly be torn down tomorrow morning, as soon as it was no longer fashionable or appropriate.

Tim found Jack on the back terrace, brooding. He was alone.

It was a black tie event, and Jack had put in the effort, although he wore his tie undone, loose around his shoulders. He had a bottle in one hand, his fingers tight around the neck. He stared at the sky and didn’t look around when Tim unlatched the door and stepped outside.

He didn’t speak until it swung shut with a quiet click. “You’re late.”

He said it casually, like an observation rather than an accusation, but Tim wasn’t fooled. He knew his brother, knew that tone intimately. It was like the sound of an orchestra warming up. He’d known it already, just from taking one look at the way Jack’s knuckles had gone white around the glass bottle, the curl of his other hand into an empty fist. Jack was itching for a fight.

“Sorry,” Tim said. “Traffic was bad.”

“You’re all dressed up too,” Jack said, glancing over. “You’re going out tonight?”

Tim looked down at the suit Rhys had bought him the other day. He smoothed down his lapels. “Yeah.”

Jack’s expression darkened. He sniffed and took a drink. “Didn’t expect to hear from you tonight. Especially not by text at fucking 10:17pm.”

Tim took his place beside Jack. He leaned against the fence and stared out at the grounds. Snow gleamed like frosting on a gingerbread house across the backyard, on the bows of the evergreens, and the curve of every topiary.

“Sorry,” Tim said again. “But you didn’t have to answer.”

“Don’t see how I had a choice. After you bailed on Maui and abandoned your only family during Christmas.”

Tim had expected this. He stared at a burlap-wrapped rose bush, his eyes tracing the curl of snow around its top. Like a scoop of ice cream.

“What was so important that you had to skip out on us for, anyway?” Jack asked.

“Jack, do you remember when we were… Man. We must’ve been four or five years old? It was one of the first Christmases I can remember. We each got gifts from the church toy drive. Remember?” Tim turned finally, to see Jack staring at him warily. Jack always hated having the script pulled from his fingers. “Nala and Simba from the Lion King? You made me take Nala,” he added.

Jack had done that kind of thing a lot when they were kids. It’d bothered Tim, because he was just old enough to understand that he was a boy and he shouldn’t be playing with girl things, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. Nala had big, green cartoon eyes and she would purr when Tim hugged her. The first time he’d done it, he’d wanted to cry. He’d always wanted a cat.

“You loved Simba. You used to take him everywhere with you. We used to play together. You don’t remember this?” Tim asked. Jack’s expression only twisted further, but Tim wasn’t fooled. He never could be. “We must’ve had them for a month before grandma decided enough was enough. She took them from us. She threw them away.”

It still hurt to think about. Nala, who’d purred when Tim held her, rotting in the garbage. Tim swallowed and stared at his hands, collecting himself in silence. He hated that it still upset him. When he looked over he found Jack glaring at the ground.

He took a drink straight from the bottle. Wordlessly, he held it out to Tim.

“That was more than 30 years ago,” Jack said as Tim took a quick swig.

“You always hated to lose,” Tim said.

“Show me someone who likes it,” Jack said.

Tim tilted his head, conceding the point. “Maybe. But I don’t think anyone hates it as much as you do.” He gave the bottle a swirl, listening to the bubbles hiss to life. Inside he could hear laughter, lively jazz, popping corks. The sound of New Years Eve.

“Is this what you’ve come out here to tell me?” Jack asked. “Because we could’ve done this any other time.”

Tim took a long breath. “Jack, I came out here to tell you that you’re my brother and I love you.”

Jack sighed, his breath escaping in a stream of silver vapour. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I loved you when you were the only person I had in my life, when you were my only family.” Tim spoke carefully and evenly, just as he’d rehearsed. “I’ll love you even when I’ve got a family of my own.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jack muttered. He wouldn’t look at Tim. He slumped over the fence and glared at the ground.

“I never want to lose you, Jack,” Tim went on, undeterred. To his slight horror, his voice had begun to shake. “But I’m here to tell you that if you keep pulling the kind of shit you pulled at your holiday party, you will lose _me_.”

A hand locked itself around Tim’s arm, yanked him half a step off balance, and Jack was in his face.

“ _That’s not going to happen_ ,” he said.

It took Tim a second to recover, to override the part of him that would always freeze when Jack spoke to him like that. He breathed through it.

He could remember that night, when their grandmother had taken those stupid stuffed animals away from them. Jack had raged like a thunderstorm trapped inside a four year old boy’s body. He’d ripped up their books, tore their drawers from the dressers, dumped their clothes onto the ground, dismantled and broke everything he possibly could in their room, until everything was a mess on the floor.

Tim sat on the bed, too frightened to do anything but watch. And when Jack was done, he’d rounded on Tim.

Tim had uncurled his arms from where they’d held his knees. He’d held them open. He’d wanted so badly to hold something that needed him.

In the present, Jack’s grip was tight enough to bruise. He placed his hand over Jack’s.

“I hope not,” he said quietly, looking his brother in the eyes.

Anger burned hot in Tim when he would let it, bright as a Roman candle and just as brief. It was different for Jack, who’d been angry before he’d been almost anything else. Who was proud of his ability to harness it, use it like a forge for his words. Anger was Jack’s companion just as much as Tim had been. Tim could’ve fought it, but Jack loved to fight. Instead, he’d found another way.

When Tim opened his arms, Jack could never bring himself to hurt him. Not ever.

Jack looked down at their hands, his expression crumpling. He swallowed.

I knew you before I knew anything else, Tim thought. We were together the moment our hearts started beating. Before that, even.

A bottle popped somewhere inside, and a chorus of voices cheered. Jack and Tim fell apart, folding themselves back into their separate selves. Tim took a drink. Jack rubbed his nose and looked away.

“I want you to do something for me,” Tim said, when he felt confident enough to use his voice again. Jack sighed. “I want you to schedule an appointment for us both with your therapist.” Jack groaned and dropped his head in his hands. “Don’t start with me. What you did was shitty and I’m so angry with you, I—” Tim cut himself off and pushed his hand through his hair. He breathed out hard. “I know you, Jack. The only reason I’m here talking to you now is because I know that, in some twisted way, you thought you were looking out for me.”

“I _am_ ,” Jack said. “I am looking out for you, Timmy. You’re angry with me? You’re the one who keeps walking into a shark tank with raw meat taped to your chest. You’re the one who gets yourself into these situations and then you come crying to me with your stupid broken heart in your stupid hands, expecting me—”

“I expect you to support me when I’m hurt,” Tim said, his voice rising to speak over him. “That’s not the same—”

“You think it’s easy for me, watching you do this to yourself?” Jack could always be louder. He could always be bigger in ways that counted beyond their physicality, making Tim feel small.

Not this time. Tim clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut, tried to reign in his temper.

“I’m trying to protect you,” Jack went on. “You know he’s just like the others, don’t you? No, I take that back—he’s _worse_. He’s dangerous. He’s never had to struggle for a single thing in his charmed fucking life. What do you think he’s going to do to you the second things get difficult? He’s only in it when things are good. I know his type. He’ll chew you up and spit you out and when he’s done with you. And when he does, I’ll—” Jack stopped, rocking on his heels. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, his brows furrowed as if he were confused by the words falling out of his mouth. He pulled himself back, took a breath and let it out as a sigh. “I’ll be there. As fucking usual.”

Tim closed his eyes. He bowed his head, released his anger in a twist of vapour from his mouth. “I know you will, Jack,” he said.

Jack stepped forward. Tim looked up, drew a quick breath, and pulled his brother into an embrace.

Jack always held too hard. He gripped the back of Tim’s jacket, no doubt wrinkling the fabric Tim had so carefully steamed flat hours before.

“You make me so angry, Jack,” Tim said. Jack snorted.

“You’re the one always pissing me off. If you were anyone but my brother…” He huffed and dropped his head onto Tim’s shoulder.

Tim rested his cheek against the top of Jack’s head. “I love you, Jack. I always will. But you’re wrong about Rhys.” Jack stiffened. “And that’s all I’m going to say without your therapist present.”

Jack sighed. He knocked his head against Tim’s shoulder, slapped him once on the back, and pulled away.

“My therapist, huh…” He pushed the few strands that’d fallen loose from his style back into place.

“Well, you don’t like mine, so.” Tim shrugged and held the bottle out for Jack.

“Fine.” Jack took it. “I’ll call you with the details when I set it up.”

“Okay. Thank you. Happy New Years, Jack. I hope you enjoy your night.” Tim gave him a smile which was not returned.

Jack looked troubled, his sharp brows pushed together, lips stretched pale and tight. Tim nodded and turned.

“Tim!” Jack’s voice stopped him with his hand on the door. Tim looked over his shoulder. Jack stared at him, that same conflicted look on his face. He had his arms folded tight over his chest, the bottle dangling from one hand. His shoulders dropped. “Just be careful, okay?”

“I will,” Tim promised. The door opened, enveloping Tim in light and warmth.

* * *

Rhys fiddled with his phone, because it was better than looking at the Victorian mansion at the end of the street. There were vehicles had been parked all along the curb, leaving Tim no other option but to idle their car on the corner while he went in to find Jack.

Rhys had offered to join him, but Tim’s whole expression seemed to freeze at the suggestion. In the end, Rhys agreed to wait in the car.

He flicked his screen, calling up a new line of cat pictures. The car was warm at least, but the constant heated air was drying his skin out. Every now and then people with noise blowers and little plastic hats would stagger past, laughing and cheering like the new year had already come. Rhys checked the clock and pursed his lips. If Tim took any longer, they wouldn’t be wrong.

The door cracked open a little over five minutes later, bringing in the cold air and the scent of dried winter.

“You better not be working,” Tim said as he reached for his seatbelt.

Rhys rolled his eyes. “No, I’m not working. Actually, I’m looking at Instagram.”

“Oh, you’re on social media. What a surprise.” Tim held his hands in front of the vent. “Who are you spying on now?”

“Just this cute guy I found,” Rhys replied, scrolling to a new page. “He’s got this beautiful body but all he does is post pictures of his asshole cats.”

Tim frowned. “That’s not _all_ I do.”

“You posted 78 images this year, Tim, and 70 of them are your cats. You don’t even pose for selfies with them,” Rhys said.

“Why would I do that? My face would take up so much space that could be filled with cats,” he said as he leaned over to the console. “Are we still going to Yvette’s party?”

“Yes.” Rhys closed the app and sat back. “Are you planning on kissing me when the ball drops?”

“Yeah, maybe. I’ve been kissing you a lot lately. Maybe I should give someone else a try.” Tim punched in the address very carefully, using only one finger.

“Ha ha,” Rhys said.

The car roused itself from its slumber and pulled away from the curb. Tim sat back with a sigh. Rhys looked him over.

“How did it go?” Rhys asked.

“No one threw any punches, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Tim said.

It had been, a little. “But he listened to you?” Rhys asked.

“As much as he ever does. He still thinks you’re going to throw my heart down the stairs, but he did agree to a family therapy session.”

Rhys pinched his lips tight. Tim turned his head and gave him a smile. It landed like a thrown bucket of water to the building anger in Rhys’ chest.

“Well.” Rhys reached over and took Tim’s hand. “I guess I’m glad.”

“It’s a start, anyway.” Tim rubbed his thumb across the back of Rhys’ hand. “Y’know, what kills me is that the two of you would probably get along, if you gave it a shot.” A shadow passed over Tim’s expression, concern and unease at his own words.

Rhys suspected this particular insecurity would keep rearing its ugly head. It was too old to easily release its grip over Tim’s heart. Another something for a therapy session, down the line. Rhys gave his hand a squeeze.

“I really doubt that,” Rhys said. “Even if we get over the whole corporate rival thing, I’ll still be the guy who bosses his precious brother around in bed.”

Tim choked, laughing. “I wasn’t planning on telling him that,” he said. “You better not be, either,” He added. Rhys only smiled.

They hit traffic as soon as they turned south and started making their way downtown. The streets were lit up and people were streaming down the sidewalk, their breath trailing behind them like silver streamers. Rhys chewed his lip and watched the clock tick its way closer to midnight.

“Well, I hope you can at least tolerate each other,” Tim said. “It’ll make family dinners a lot less awkward.”

Those were exactly the sort of words that should’ve terrified Rhys. It shouldn’t make sense that they did nothing to him now, except fill him with a golden warmth, like he’d swallowed the spark of a roaring fire.

A person shouldn’t grow so quickly, but maybe he hadn’t grown at all. Even if he’d buried his feelings, ignored it all and run from commitment like a cliché, maybe part of him had always expected to be caught. And maybe that same part had always hoped it would be Tim who did the catching.

“I’ll put up with him,” Rhys said. “If it’ll make you happy.”

Rhys had been running for so long that he failed to notice when he started to slow down, when his heart wasn’t in it anymore. When Tim smiled at him, illuminated by the streetlamps and the blue glow of their console, Rhys knew that his heart had gone somewhere else. To someone else for the first time since he was a kid.

“Shit,” Tim said, his gaze falling to the time display. “We might be celebrating the new year in a car, my dear.”

Although Rhys had been afraid of that only minutes before, he now found he didn’t actually mind. “It’s fine,” he said. “We’ll get there when we get there.”

“Are you sure?” Tim asked. He looked so concerned, worry lines forming between his brows and at the corner of his eyes. Like he could do something about the traffic, or like he was prepared to lift their car above his head and carry them the rest of the way.

Rhys leaned over and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I’m sure. Now you’ll have no choice but to kiss me,” Rhys said smugly.

“Oh no,” Tim murmured, leaning forward.

The clock struck midnight while they were still in the car, but Rhys honestly didn’t mind. He kissed Tim while the crowds on the street sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’, and fireworks bloomed across the night sky, like brief and close stars.

“Here’s to the new year,” Rhys said, although he had no drink to raise. He touched Tim’s cheek, swiped his thumb across his dimple.

“Here’s to us,” Tim said. “I love you, Rhys.”

Affection surged so strongly inside of Rhys that it could leave no room for anything else. His eyes stung and his throat tightened. He’d known it, of course he’d known it, but he didn’t realise how badly he needed to hear Tim actually say the words out loud until that moment.

They would get married, Rhys decided as he reclaimed Tim’s lips. He was already looking at rings. He would ask Tim to move in with him, and he would bring his two cats and his collection of books. Or maybe they would move someplace new, someplace where the kitchen didn’t confuse and annoy Tim, someplace with hardwood floors and throw pillows on the couch. Maybe he would even give his mother the grandkids she’d been looking for.

The future was wide open, the possibilities were wonderful and endless. But for now, Rhys kissed Tim.

Outside, the first few minutes of the new year arrived with music and light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, that's it. We're done! That's the end of the Sad Men AU! I hope you enjoyed it. I imagine if you've gotten this far, you have. Thanks to everyone for all their kind comments, kudos, and general support for this, my most romcom-y story. Not to get too personal but I haven't been in the greatest headspace these last few weeks, and the outpouring of kindness I've received in response to this story really helped me keep my head above water. 
> 
> Special thanks to my pals and betas, Jun and Anya, for being the first people to yell at me about the ending of what became chapter 6. Also to ep22 and suis0u for sharing their incredible art.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr, as always: nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


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